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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967694">Overnight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisterMain/pseuds/CanisterMain'>CanisterMain</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hotline Miami (Video Games), Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action, Eventual Romance, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I've never been in Florida so expect Vice City instead, Mild Gore, Not fully British Mute for location reasons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-War, Set during 1989</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:14:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27967694</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisterMain/pseuds/CanisterMain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mute. A veteran from the Russo-American War. Masked assassinations. Kind of cliché, isn't it? Story I started out of boredom. Since I live for pairings, there'll be some killings with a little bit of feels, probably? Anyway, feel free to judge me. Later will include gore and drugs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mark "Mute" Chandar/Alex Davis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Purple and pink.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark Chandar. Born in the USA. Half British, half American. Young, but a veteran of the Russo-American war in Hawaii.</p><p>The war left its scars, no doubt. As soon as he returned, he looked for a place to stay in Miami, far away from his parents.</p><p>They shouldn't know he had developed certain... disorders. Actually, he didn't know anyone from the war who didn't acquire any.</p><p>In C Company, only the tough and smart survived the massacre at the Stronghold. He wouldn't ever understand how the Ghost Wolves, with only four men, had killed every and each of those reds, who seemed to come out from the endless bushes in the jungle. Not to mention their elite akimbo pistol unit, with their inhuman reactions.</p><p>He wanted to get away from it all. From his work as a military engineer or anything that had to do with violence. When he began his studies, it never crossed his mind that he would end up working with helicopters and weapons.</p><p>But his country needed him.</p><p>"Failure is not an option, soldier! We need the equipment ASAP!"</p><p>Now, much experienced at 23, he just wanted a simple job, like a store clerk, having collected enough of his military payment.</p><p>The USA lost, but that didn't mean he wasn't getting any money from his service.</p><p>A middle-aged man hired him two blocks from his home. Seeing Mark's scar over his cheek, he instantly recognized him as a veteran, but ignored him like any of his customers until he came to pay for his stuff.</p><p>"You okay, lad?" he interrupted his newspaper's read, and raised an eyebrow, after Mark stared at the counter for a while.</p><p>Mark pointed to the entrance door, where the employee search's sign hung.</p><p>"Oh, you're coming for the spot. Okay, I just need to know if you're trustworthy." The man examined him carefully, then shook his head. "You look innocent. Not like those three idiots who came before you."</p><p>Mark blinked, not quite following the comment. He could have any adjective next to his name, except that one. Perhaps his military cut, which he hadn't thought of changing, was on his side for the first time in his life.</p><p>"What 's your name? I'm not looking for mute people, kid."</p><p>"Mark." He forced himself to talk, and his voice almost squeaked.</p><p>"That's it? Don't you have anything else to say?"</p><p>The boy chose to shake his head, and kept eye contact steadily.</p><p>"Okay, 'just Mark', I'll be waiting for you at 8 in the morning, if you really want the job."</p><p>Mark relaxed his shoulders and nodded twice. He was about to leave through the door with the little bell, but stopped as it tinkled.</p><p>"Sir." He stated briefly in farewell, with a firm tone.</p><p>"Just call me Mike, okay?" The man smirked. "Now go, you scare the customers standing there."</p><p>The ex-soldier stepped out and headed hastily for the beach, not far from the store.</p><p>One thing he had promised himself in Hawaii, was to be able to observe the ocean landscape without fear of a stray bullet suddenly piercing his skull.</p><p>The moon was high in the sky, illuminating the sea.</p><p>He sat on the sand, listening to the waves come and go, while some noise from a car in the distance interrupted the sound of total peace. It didn't bother him anyway.</p><p>Sometimes, he believed his brain made music, just for him to hear. The waves, the palm trees in the distance swaying and dancing along the breeze, and the big city behind that never slept.</p><p>Those contributed to shortly forgetting the shots fired, the blood spilling, and the screams in Russian, with his former unit.</p><p>After a couple of hours, he stood up and walked home.</p><p>He quickly thought about getting a safer way to move around, as he observed the situation of being out late at night, and alone. This time, anyways, he had to deal with it.</p><p>The strange lights of the nightclubs illuminated his path, in addition to women of some modest night work, and a couple of low-lifes, who surely hid weapons inside their huge sweatshirts.</p><p>Mark went on subtle mode while darting across the street. A skill he acquired in training.</p><p>Well, now he didn't have the jungle as an environment, but the darkness and the beats from the loud music nearby helped a lot.</p><p>As he went around a corner, he saw many men dressed in white suits and aquamarine shirts, standing outside a building, with many neon signs. They likely had driven away the possible crowd, as none but them were there.</p><p>Mark didn't know who they were and didn't intend to find out. He passed by the parallel sidewalk and got home as fast as he could.</p><p>One floor up, and finally he could breathe at a normal pace, though he just remembered why he'd gone to the store in the first place: A couple of eggs and some bacon for breakfast tomorrow.</p><p>He just snorted in annoyance.</p><p>The next day, after having a morning meal at a nearby diner, he went to the store. Mike was waiting for him, arms crossed, next to the door still with the "Closed" sign.</p><p>"I thought you wouldn't come. I've scared many kids like you throughout my life."</p><p>Mark shook his head and curved his lips slightly, following the old man into the store. There, Mike explained the clerk job, showed him the prices, noted in a long list under the counter, and the biggest warning:</p><p>"If I notice my store's missing something, even the tiniest goody, I'm going to hunt you down until you pay for it, you hear?"</p><p>After a month of watching over the young veteran, Mike eventually recognized he wasn't that bad, and the only things he would take were few cigarettes and the occasional cold drink on summer days.</p>
<hr/><p>Years later, Mark still had the same job. Three day shifts, followed by three night shifts to end with a day off. Mike hadn't hired anyone else, and had come to trust him a lot, but never talked money terms with him, outside of his payment.</p><p>He didn't need to know anyway.</p><p>Mike had also invited him to drink and to see his beloved boat "Iron Maggie", which he loved as much as if it were his own daughter. Mark took it kindly and followed the old man, as he told him many stories about his military life. Sometimes he unknowingly repeated them, but Mark kept himself quiet and just listened.</p><p>If he considered his boss a friend, then he could conclude he had two friends at the moment. A lot of progress since his arrival to Miami.</p><p>One morning, he woke up, alerted. He just had another nightmare again. Looking at his bedside clock, it marked 5:30 in the morning.</p><p>The daylight timidly peeked through the windows, but the sun still showed no presence.</p><p>He controlled his breathing and tried to slow his heartbeat. However, as it hardly ever worked on its own, he stood up to get some cold water from the sink to fix his problem.</p><p>Unable to go back to sleep, he made his way to a free area of his apartment, where it was supposed to be his living room.</p><p>He started doing several sets of push-ups and various exercises to release part of the energy stored within his chest. He had this habit for many years, and even more so for being a healthy way to swarm himself with the sweet feeling of dopamine.</p><p>Mark didn't overwork though, as his body looked slim, but he was still able to help carrying heavy goods at Mike's store.</p><p>After cooling down for a few minutes, he took a quick shower. His three noticeable scars, on his cheek, on his arm, and the little circle in his abdomen, always made him take a little longer inside, like a second or two.</p><p>There wasn't much to choose from in his wardrobe. Weeks after his arrival, he went to a clothing store, to get himself something other than military or green camouflage stuff.</p><p>He came out of the store with four identical outfits, jacket, pants and shirt, the only variation being its colors. At least he had taken advantage of the 2x1 in the first pair. He bought four pairs of sneakers as well, either black, white or both.</p><p>After getting dressed, he went to the kitchen and looked for the milk carton, the bag of cereal and bowl. The ideal breakfast for a lazy loner like him.</p><p>He turned on the television in front of his bed, and sat down.</p><p>"The police continue investigations of the events of the past April 3th at the Brickell station, where approximately eleven people were murdered in cold blood. As far as we know, all the identified victims were Russians, implying..."</p><p>Mark started chewing, thinking. Normally, they would already have a suspect if the dead were all Russians, but apparently the murderer had worked with such quickness and efficiency, that he didn't leave any trace. Looking at the screen again, the camera focused on the female reporter and a green-eyed blond man, with a dark suit.</p><p>"Heather Chambers, FBC News. Detective, what do you...?"</p><p>"We can't assure anything until we find more leads. That's all." The blond man dismissed the camera instantly and went to one of his fellows with the "MPD" cap, and both entered the crime scene again, inside the metro.</p><p>The camera focused on the reporter again.</p><p>"Rumors of an extremist movement have started to roam the streets of Miami. Not having yet clarified the events of April 2nd, in which a Russian themed bar on 139th Street was attacked in a similar way..."</p><p>The ex-soldier swallowed. Two days in a row, two strikes on two different sides of the city. It wasn't a one-man job, that he could assure.</p><p>Surely his friend Jordan knew more about the case, as he was also a member of the police force. It would be interesting to hear, like most of the situations that had happened to him throughout his career as a detective, with his long journey from Texas to Miami.</p><p>Plus, he was way easier to talk to than his colleague Pardo, the one who had appeared on television.</p><p>Mark got up, finished the milk in the bowl with a large gulp, left it by the sink, on top of the plate he had used last night.</p><p>As there was nothing else to do, he returned to his bed, leaving his blue jacket hanging on a nearby chair.</p><p>He suddenly felt his head sinking in the mattress' softness, to the point he nearly dozed off in record time, but his brain again sent an electric shock to the rest of his body. On his days off he used to wake up and go back to sleep, but this one wasn't.</p><p>Grunting, he sat up and stared at his little clock. 6:10 am.</p><p>He turned off the television, as he didn't need it to remind him something he already knew: Miami was an unsafe place.</p><p>Better yet, he decided to spend the little free time he had left by running a little electronic experiment.</p><p>Since he scarcely had visitors, next to his exercise zone, he had a small clandestine workshop instead of the classic sofa, which were discarded in a corner. His neighbors often entrusted him with minimal jobs, with payment of course. Extra money was always welcome.</p><p>As long as he didn't burn down the building, everything would be okay.</p><p>A working phone was at reach, but he rarely needed it, as the only ones who'd call him were his family, landlady, Jordan or Mike. He kept it anyways, because once in a while, hearing his mother's voice was more than enough to ease his troubled mind.</p><p>Two days ago, a close neighbor gave him a broken NES, and he had barely made any progress. However, this little device was nothing compared to explosives and antipersonnel mines.</p><p>He finished in twenty minutes, and went out to knock on two doors to his right, near the stairs.</p><p>"Do you know what time it is, Mark?" the slightly older woman yawned, wearing a nurse's uniform. "Oh, the NES. My son will finally stop pestering me. Thank you."</p><p>Mark handed her the device, and he stood there, waiting for his pay.</p><p>"I'll have the rest for tomorrow, I promise." She gave him a five-dollar bill. "Harold still can't find a job because of… ethnic preference. You know how it is."</p><p>"Good luck." Mark gave her an understanding nod.</p><p>"Likewise. Have a nice day." The woman replied, before closing the door.</p><p>Having brought his keys, his lighter, the pin with his name and his wallet, Mark considered he had enough to go out for the day.</p><p>His BMW was waiting for him outside. It wasn't a big deal, but it allowed him to move around safely through the night, when insomnia hit him randomly, or when he made the happy mistake of drinking coffee before sleeping.</p><p>The store didn't open that early, so he chose to take a brief drive around town.</p><p>Dawn still lingered in the sky, with different colors. A visual symphony before sunrise.</p><p>The neon signs of the beachside pubs and hotels were already flickering, giving way from the sweet and silent nightlife to the bitter and active daylife. Before the last light went off, Mark parked under a palm tree, watching the sun rise on the horizon.</p><p>Perhaps, after having had horrible experiences in the war, he had managed to restart his life. In paradise on earth, Miami.</p><p>However, this city was going to have much more than a surprise for him.</p><p>After all, in April of 1989, many stories began.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>diveus - Relayed / Song helping through writing.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lingering hatred</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark parked his BMW outside the store, in the furthest of the four possible compartments. His figurine dog's head wiggled for the last time and he got out of the car, unconsciously locking it.</p><p>The busy daytime life greeted him with a gentle wave and a honk.</p><p>7am. Traffic worsened, stressed average working citizens cursed their lives, their bosses and their cup coffee, and night owls returned back home, sobering up from the myriad of narcotics intoxicating their blood, or alcohol.</p><p>An ambulance's siren shook them off their lethargy, speeding down the street.</p><p>Mike's store was in a pretty decent shape, but it was never too clean for his boss, so Mark grabbed the mop and broom from the tiny bathroom, beside the counter.</p><p>He turned on the radio, his only company during his shift, unless Mike showed up surprisingly.</p><p>After tidying up some shelves, putting new drinks in the freezers, and making the white tiles shiny, Mark flipped the sign from 'Closed' to 'Open'. He continued sweeping outside, just to look around the street a bit before his shift.</p><p>The morning breeze felt even nicer, until some old car's smoke corrupted it.</p><p>Despite being early in the morning, many customers came to the store. He quickly had to return to the counter and tend them, hiding a yawn. From his ill-tempered compatriots, to frivolous Russian immigrants.</p><p>Like any other day, Mark noticed the not so subtle cold shoulder some of the Americans gave to the foreigners. The latters were used to this treatment by now, and did the way back.</p><p>However, it could escalate quickly to a fight or heated exchange of words, with Mark in the middle. Sometimes, he even sided with his compatriots, knowing he should kick both sides out of the store.</p><p>Thousands of people had died in San Francisco three years ago. Many unknowingly took their last breath, as a shockwave swallowed and turned them into ashes.</p><p>But then he remembered these Russians didn't order the bombing. They wouldn't be buying groceries in a mere store at Miami Beach if so.</p><p>"<em>The people in San Francisco were innocent too!"</em></p><p>Mark put a hand softly on his face, sighed and opened his eyes again. He didn't need any distractions now.</p><p>Luckily, things ended alright, everyone leaving calmly with bags or snacks, minding their own business.</p><p>The rush hour passed. Mark read the newspaper after being lonely for a while.</p><p>A seemingly foreign couple just entered. He glanced at them, before his attention returned to the note of the massacre at the Brickell station.</p><p>Many lines, with the Police Chief denying the evident 'hate crime', as one of the victims turned out to be an American, noting it as a casualty of a gang war.</p><p>Mark heard the couple approach the counter, so he raised his eyes. A purple-dressed brunette being held by a bald bearded man, dressed in a white suit, both with goofy smiles on their faces. They seemed to be coming back from a party that had just ended, or perhaps started.</p><p>"Hey, man." The suited man managed to articulate. "I need a little something to... set my own party, you know what I mean?" He hugged the girl, openly cupping one of her breasts.</p><p>Mark raised an eyebrow, somewhat uncomfortable. However, he knew the procedure, so he pointed to the almanac of the Cherry Pop Ice Cream Co., which was behind him.</p><p>The white suited man grinned.</p><p>"Nice try buddy, but what I need is a real man's drink! American's shitty stuff is too fucking weak for me."</p><p>The ex-soldier sighed and ducked under the counter. He picked up one of the vodka bottles hidden there, and handed it over.</p><p>"Yeaah!" the man celebrated, sniffing the bottle after obtaining it. His expression changed when he saw Mark kept steady and quiet. "You think that'd be enough, punk?" He hit the counter and made it tremble.</p><p>Mark ducked again and retrieved more bottles. He clearly had misunderstood his distinguished customer.</p><p>Three bottles were now displayed. Mark didn't know how the Russian would take them, and his vocal cords refused to work. He blinked twice when he saw the couple already had grabbed the vodka in each hand.</p><p>"Let's go Milena!"</p><p>The brunette stood still for a moment, but gave in, as the man in the suit led her to the exit, brushing her nose against his neck.</p><p>"Thanks man! We promise to come back." he exclaimed as the doorbell rang.</p><p>Mark leaned out and peeked through the door. As expected, a sedan was outside waiting, with others in the same white suit. He made slight eye contact with the chauffeur, as the couple entered the back seats.</p><p>Breaking it before it turned to a glare, Mark returned to his counter space, opening the newspaper.</p><p>Within a minute, the bell rang again. The ex-soldier snorted, glancing at the door. He sighed in relief to see Mike there.</p><p>"The mob again? Jesus, in broad daylight. Those bastards know no limits." the old man examined his face. "You alright?"</p><p>Mark nodded. A year ago, these same people in white suits had started asking local businesses for protection. Mike's was no exception.</p><p>Normally the old man would have turned the offer down with a couple of shotgun shells, but doing so meant digging his own grave. It was known on the streets they were in charge now.</p><p>But at least their so-called 'protection' proved to be useful and made audacious junkies pay dearly for robbery attempts. The Russians were true to their word.</p><p>Still, in addition to their weekly payment they always came to collect on Friday nights, sometimes this kind of request happened, like free stuff. Mark didn't mind them as long as they didn't go hostile. Even if he had just the thought of grabbing the shotgun under the counter, his boss' words repeated inside his mind.</p><p>"<em>Just do your job, stay out of trouble and we'll get along, kid.</em>"</p><p>Fair enough, he obeyed. Besides, his military training hadn't been to go guns blazing everywhere.</p><p>Mike walked over to the counter and put some peculiar pink papers on it. Mark put the newspaper aside again, inspecting what he had brought. It looked like a pamphlet.</p><p>"Another hit, huh? Looks like some maniac is avenging San Francisco all by himself."</p><p>The ex-soldier examined the words on the pink little booklet.</p><p>"<strong>Don't you think it's time to do something for our country?</strong>" The bold letters contrasted the paper's bright color.</p><p>"Ah, that thing? It's another patriotic nonsense politicians will surely silence again. This country is going to shit." Mike began rearranging the items inside the store, even though Mark had done it before.</p><p>The young clerk kept reading all the pages. He had seen this kind of message spread around the city, but never with real effect. Peaceful patriotism wasn't going to save the Americans from communists in any way.</p><p>They made the USA surrender with a bomb, so 'peace' wasn't the way to approach.</p><p>"<strong>Consecrate your life to a greater cause. Join us and fight the Russian menace.</strong>"</p><p>Fight? How? Yelling them 'Cyka Blyat'?</p><p>"Yeah, I stopped on that word too. I can't find another way to 'fight' unless it means grabbing a gun and shoot the bloody Mafia in the face. Guess it's a vet's thought, you get it."</p><p>Mark chuckled at him. He turned the page, reaching the last one.</p><p>"<strong>Support 50 Blessings and receive a monthly bulletin with key information of our fight and efforts against the communist invasion.</strong>"</p><p>Underneath were several lines to write his name, age, address, and weirdly, his phone number.</p><p>"<strong>America is a tune. It must be sung together."</strong></p><p>If this organization was looking for new members, they'd better try harder, because the pamphlet barely stirred his hatred nerve. He folded the paper in four and aimed at the trash can, but the old man stopped him, returning to the counter.</p><p>"Hey! You really ain't going to join? Surely you can meet a girl out there... Plus, you're young, you can do three times more for this country in half the time than me."</p><p>Mark raised an eyebrow at him, his left hand swaying in the air.</p><p>"Perhaps you think I haven't noticed, but it's been almost two years with the same routine, son. Youth is short... If Jordan didn't come here maybe you wouldn't even have any friends."</p><p>The ex-soldier frowned and aimed again. He didn't need that.</p><p>The little bell rang.</p><p>A young blonde girl appeared. Her face looked gloomy and weary, partially covered by her hair, despite having some tied in a messy ponytail. Her dark eyebags were quite prominent, as if she hadn't slept in days.</p><p>Mark quickly straightened himself behind the counter, leaving the pink paper over it.</p><p>The girl ignored Mike, went directly to the freezer area, opened the one with the refreshments, grabbed three Mountain Dew cans and returned to Mark.</p><p>His eyes were fixed on her, as they did every time she came to the store.</p><p>Not minding him much, she put the cans over the counter. Their eyes briefly connected, while she searched in her pockets for the bill she used to always give him.</p><p>Two seconds later, her hands moved quicker and eyes opened wide. A sigh escaped through her lips, and her expression returned to normal, normally depressed. She brought down the backpack she carried, and began looking for the money inside.</p><p>Mark took the opportunity to observe her. He liked to do so. Her small nose, her pale but seemingly soft cheeks, and her pink, slightly chapped lips. A pair of dog tags fell right down the middle of her chest, proudly displayed.</p><p>He interrupted his bold inspection, having noticed her light greenish eyes staring right into his face.</p><p>Mark cleared his throat and looked away, handling the sudden discomfort. He couldn't help but feel a little warmer though, and blamed the early April's spring.</p><p>When she finally found the bill, she put it down, waiting for the change. Mark opened the cash register, and quickly grabbed what he owed. Not changing the expression on her face at any time, she took the coins along with her cans, putting them all but one in her backpack, and headed towards the exit.</p><p>"Um..." The ex-soldier tried to stop her. He needed to do it today.</p><p>The girl stopped and looked at him, blinking a few times. Mark felt his vocal cords refuse to function, again.</p><p>The doctor said some event in the war re-triggered a previous disorder he had, worsening his possible ptsd. He prescribed the generic pills, assuring Mark he would heal gradually and, to no one's surprise, they did nothing.</p><p>She stood there for a few seconds. As nothing but silence continued, she went out, ringing the little bell.</p><p>Mark stared at the door as it closed, tapping his fingers to the counter. Startling Mike, he hopped out of the counter and ran outside, after her.</p><p>"Than.. Thanks for coming." His words faded as he spoke.</p><p>The girl turned and looked at him, cupping a can in her hand. From her blank expression, her lips moved slightly upward, and she nodded, then continued on her way. Mark just stood there, just watching her moves as she walked off.</p><p>"Hey. Hey, kid." He heard the voice of the old man just behind. "Look, Good for you for finally talking to her, but I don't pay you for being out here."</p><p>Mark turned and nodded, a visible smile on his face. He entered the store, and returned to his position.</p><p>"Tch, these kids nowadays. He doesn't even know her name!" Mike commented, as he walked to see his beloved boat at the port.</p><p>Excitement was a puny feeling compared to the one now swarming the ex-soldier. For the first time, he had managed to break her everlasting sadness, but what his boss had said was true. Her name was still missing.</p><p>Throughout the morning, many customers came. Almost doubled the usual.</p><p>Mark kept his exceptional good mood, helping a housewife with her stuff, or putting up with the complaints from the occasional angry man about the Russians and the poor service in Miami.</p><p>"Why in the holy hell Reagan gave up our great America to the reds? Even the army gave up! Fucking cowards."</p><p>He couldn't do more for him besides listening anyway, and a few words from someone who will probably never come back wouldn't change the picture of her smile.</p><p>The smile that probably would happen again tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow was the day he would ask her name. For sure.</p><hr/><p>At one o'clock, he had his little snack. Normally at this hour, someone from the nearby diner where he usually had breakfast, would come bringing his food, but today had failed.</p><p>He paid to himself in the cash register and grabbed one of the chips right next to him, just to distract his hunger.</p><p>As he solved the newspaper's crossword, a car pulled up right next to his BMW. It wasn't a fancy four-door, but it was worthy of a Miami police station's detective, with an off red siren behind the windshield.</p><p>"Heyo, Mark. Things going well around here, I see." Jordan announced his entrance with a salute, as usual.</p><p>"Hi." The ex-soldier saw him carrying two bags in his hands. He hoped for lunch and not some crime evidence crap. He wasn't in the mood for a prank after April Fool's.</p><p>"Mike called me. Here, some of your <em>ol' china</em> is going to save you today." Jordan raised the bags. Both had the Blue Dragon restaurant's logo on them.</p><p>"Mike knew? How?"</p><p>"He surely forgot to tell you, don't sweat it. Rumours say the Mob's getting tougher on nearby businesses after what happened these days. Deliveries failing, employees quitting and worse service overall." Jordan handed him his meal, and opened his, positioning himself in front of the counter. "I don't blame them though. For the crappy payment they receive I wouldn't risk my life either."</p><p>"Thank you." Although Mark's words came out drily, Jordan ignored it. His tone changed as much as the cop's expressions in <em>Cobra</em>: Nearly nothing, like a flatline.</p><p>Chinese food wasn't Mark's cup of tea, but it was better than starving.</p><p>"Did you see the Brickell news? It was a nasty bloodbath in there."</p><p>"More than the bar?"</p><p>"Hm… not really. In fact, it was a way cleaner hit than the bar. Not even one bullet casing. I don't know how the murderers could've been so... accurate to <em>dislocate</em> the neck in a single baseball bat swing. You follow?"</p><p>The ex-soldier chewed calmly, hearing Jordan talk. Disgust had been lost many years ago, because of a landmine.</p><p>"One-hit-kills?"</p><p>"Yeah, amazing, huh? Oh, but three of them were practically unrecognizable. Some rookies couldn't even hide their disgust. Then, the mob itself came to the scene, and held us to account. Morons, as if we had a lot of people after their 'peaceful' silences. Poor Benson."</p><p>"Mob 's casualties?"</p><p>"You mean the dead? Shhh, we're not supposed to talk about that." He got a step closer. "But yes. I just hope whoever has done it is having a great day."</p><p>"Oh. Ah, my bad. Nothing on CCTV?"</p><p>"Nope. To tell the truth, even if there was something to be found, that shitty quality wouldn't let us recognize any face. And what about you? Did you finally talk to the girl?"</p><p>Mark picked up some chicken, looked at him and nodded.</p><p>"Woo, really? What 's her name?"</p><p>"I don't know."</p><p>"What do you mean you don't know? Then what did you say to her?" Jordan frowned, somewhat confused.</p><p>"Thanks for coming."</p><p>The detective swallowed his food and peered at Mark.</p><p>"So, that was it? Well, at least she knows you exist. Gotta look to the upsides."</p><p>Mark laughed. Yep, he was 'The guy from the store who came out to thank her for coming over way long after he should' to her.</p><p>"Oh? Did you get one too?" Jordan looked at the 50 Blessings pamphlet. "I am proud to see there are still Americans with the will to fight for this cursed country. Aren't you going to join?"</p><p>The ex-soldier shook his head from side to side.</p><p>"Come on! If I didn't have this ruthless job on my back, I'd be a great militant. I've seen a lot of people your age walking around that place, so you could surely find her there."</p><p>"Of my age?" Mark tilted his head to the left.</p><p>"I'll always be ten years older than you, little kid. But think about it, you can still live a rebellious and way nicer youth. The thirties are shit, don't forget about that."</p><p>"For reals?"</p><p>"Considering you haven't had a girlfriend in a long time... Two birds with one stone!"</p><p>"Hm..."</p><p>"What can you lose? Unless the Mob intend to attack some innocent newspaper, something I see way unlikely, since some suicide gang are currently hunting them down."</p><p>Mark rolled his eyes. Reluctantly, he set aside his food, and read the terms again.</p><p>He couldn't find anything about protesting or being rebellious, but then saw a place for 'conversation' for the supporters, in the 50 Blessings HQ.</p><p>The ex-soldier underlined the word with the pen he had near the cash register and turned it over for Jordan to see.</p><p>"Conversation, huh? Maybe you're on for a little practice. I'm always free at night as a wingman, you know."</p><p>"I'll just sign, okay? I get a chance every day anyway."</p><p>"But two would be better, wouldn't it?"</p><p>"Mark R. Chandar. 25 years old. 430 16th Street." He wrote. "Is that it?"</p><p>"You missed the number down there." Jordan pointed to the last line. "I also signed up, so if something happens, I can always go snoop around, y'know?" He looked at his wristwatch. "Ah heck. For sure Pardo is already looking for an excuse to get me fired."</p><p>Jordan quickly swallowed what was left of his food, and then he came out, leaving his trash in the trashcan by the door. "If you change your mind about the club, call me, yeah?"</p><p>Mark used to go out with him once a month, not really willing, just for routine.</p><p>His friend detective didn't bore the situation or anything like that, but his said 'plain luck' made him ditch Mark in the middle of the night, while he spent his few coins on soft drinks and then returned home.</p><p>The ex-soldier didn't mind, because actually his role was looking less cool than his friend and nodding whenever Jordan asked him something with a girl nearby. Not to mention the fiascos when that <em>'mademoiselle'</em> had a friend.</p><p>Mark wrote down his phone number, folded the paper in two, and put it in his pocket, just to receive another customer. Sending the message by mail could wait.</p><p>Four in the afternoon came fast enough. Mark's eyelid twitched at the fourth avalanche of indecisive children, crowding the store. It couldn't be that hard choosing two flavors of ice cream out of eight.</p><p>Consequences of the store being close to the beach, but he didn't expect that much.</p><p>When everyone finally left, he grabbed a strawberry popsicle and went out for fresh air, after paying himself, again.</p><p>The sunrays were already turning slightly orange. He thought of going to this '50 Blessings' HQs and see what was behind all that patriotism in bold letters. Perhaps another cash grab business ongoing.</p><p>Nah, who had the time to go downtown. Beach after work was his plan, before looking for dinner.</p><p>Taking the last bites of the sweet ice, he saw Mike in the distance, escorted by two men in white suits and aquamarine shirts.</p><p>Mark snorted in surprise. Today wasn't Friday. He leaped into the store, threw the wooden pallet into the trash can and flipped the 'open' sign.</p><p>The old man had never told him much details about his deal with the mob, so he didn't know what to do, other than standing there at the counter, waiting.</p><p>His anxiety soared. Those two were probably armed, and he could take out both with the double-barrel if he aimed correctly. The second shot was way riskier than the first one if he tried wielding it with one hand, but using both meant losing precious bits of seconds...</p><p>He swallowed hard, this wasn't what the old man would want. Also, the latter could get hit in the middle of the possible shootout.</p><p>"JUST GO, MUTE! GO!" A different voice resounded in his mind.</p><p>Despite being the same nightmarish memory, it didn't have the same effect as before. That time, Mark had to smash an old TV with a pipe to vent off.</p><p>The door opened, Mike passing first, followed by the pair of mobsters.</p><p>"Welcome. Hey there, Mike." His breathing sped up, even though he didn't notice.</p><p>"Hey lad." the old man muttered. His face kept an uncommon stoic expression, as he positioned himself beside Mark, behind the counter.</p><p>The eyebagged blond mobster stopped facing the two, and the other one, with purple shades, eyed through the door's window, before stepping behind the first.</p><p>"Straight to the point, shall we? As you may know, you've made a pretty good profit these few last weeks, and we've noticed our 'percentage' isn't what we agreed to. We'll let it pass as an unfortunate accident if you give us the difference now.</p><p>"How much would that be?" Mike crossed his arms, looking at the Russians. They both had their weapons by their belts, ready for action.</p><p>The blond put up his hand and raised two fingers, forming a V.</p><p>"I don't have that much." the old man replied. He was trying to keep his blank facade, but a little tic escaped through his cheek.</p><p>"We can't leave empty-handed, Baker. The boss told us to return with his pay and we will." This time the mobster behind drew a revolver, which glowed with the light above, but didn't raise it.</p><p>For a few seconds, they only exchanged glances. The mobsters were relaxed while Mark struggled with his own mind, huffing silently.</p><p>"You haven't taken your pills, have you, son?" Mike whispered with a calm tone.</p><p>Mark triggered and bent to reach for the shotgun. The old man reacted and elbowed him in the gut, virtually knocking the air out of him.</p><p>"Hey, hey!" Both mobsters backed away and the one in front drew his weapon in alarm.</p><p>"Whoa! Take it easy! He's not..." Mike raised his hands and glanced at Mark as the latter breathed heavily, having fallen to his knees.</p><p>"The money! Now!"</p><p>"Okay, okay! Just, put down your guns!"</p><p>The old man took out what was in the cash register, counting several bills, and handed them to the front mobster, folded in half.</p><p>"Alright, we'll be back on Friday." They both put their weapons away and stepped out, the little bell ringing again.</p><p>After ten seconds or so, Mike let out a deep sigh, and helped Mark up.</p><p>"So they were the ones who made Larry shut down his bar. Assholes. Did it hurt?"</p><p>Mark grunted, with a hand on his abdomen. That strike got pretty close to make him throw up.</p><p>"Then I still got it. Let's go outside, we need to talk." The old man opened a sealed pack of cigarettes from the display cases. "You got a light?"</p><p>Mark weakly reached his left pocket, and handed his lighter at Mike. The old man grabbed it and went outside, as the younger hobbled behind him.</p><p>They didn't speak for several minutes. Mark didn't usually smoke more than twice a day, but when he saw Mike starting the second one, he had another too.</p><p>"You still have sudden memories of Hawaii, haven't you?"</p><p>Mark kept looking at the ground, as the air blew the ashes of his cigarette.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Huh, and you don't take the pills." Mike let the smoke out of his lungs. "Do you think that's fine?"</p><p>Mark raised his eyes to him. At the slightest suspicion that the question was rhetorical, he preferred not to answer.</p><p>"I'm not telling you to use them, to tell the truth. Look for other ways for release, maybe today's girl, going out with Jordan more often or even find a more exciting job, I don't know. Now, you're a time bomb, almost reaching zero if I hadn't been there. It would've killed us both."</p><p>Mike took a drag until he reached half of his cigarette.</p><p>"Get a grip, Mark. You are no hero, neither are they villains of the story. Aye, the world would do a lot better without them, but we are just random people living the worst bloody period of time. Ah, for heaven's sake."</p><p>Some of the smoke went out through his nose, and he continued.</p><p>"I've come to trust you, and I don't want to fire you."</p><p>Mark exhaled this time. The old man hadn't ever mentioned getting him fired, but it didn't surprise him anyway.</p><p>"Haha, I hated those pills too. I admit I flushed a lot of them down the toilet. Ah, that made Mary so mad..."</p><p>For a while they enjoyed the breeze, while the sun's rays dimmed.</p><p>"Now go. Try to get some sleep, or ask Jordan to go somewhere tonight, if he's not too swarmed with work. A strong drink never goes wrong."</p><p>Mark curved his lips and nodded at his boss. He couldn't believe how quickly his annoyance had passed, or perhaps he just didn't want to show it.</p><p>He entered the store for his jacket, and came out, bowing slightly to Mike in goodbye.</p><p>"Sir."</p><p>"By the way, what did you do with that 50 Blessings thing? I'd like to make a donation so they can keep fighting..." He frowned. "On second thought, better not, now that my profits are going to hell. Forget it."</p><p>To cheer him up a bit, Mark pulled the signed sheet out of his pocket, which had been driven deeper because of gravity.</p><p>"You signed? Oh, now those Russians will know the real deal! Just keep things easy, lad."</p><p>The latter only raised a thumb, before getting into his vehicle and driving off. He wanted to drive around the city, before going home.</p><p>Many things have happened today. The girl finally looked at him, the silver gleam of a gun made him lose control, and his boss almost fired him.</p><p>His mind trailed away from his head, leaving his senses driving. They were used to Miami traffic anyways.</p><p>When he regained consciousness, he was reaching the HQs of the so-called 50 Blessings. His apparently good memory made him remember: NW 27th Avenue.</p><p>As soon as he got out of the car, he noticed something strange about the place. The door and the walls were made of a strange and apparently metallic material, like a military anti-bomb shelter. No one guarded the entrance, but all the lights were on.</p><p>Wandering around the entrance, a man with glasses appeared. He had a blond military cut and a well-groomed stubble.</p><p>"Greetings! How can I help you?" He approached immediately sporting a clear fake smile on his face.</p><p>"Eh..." Mark, noticing that his vocal cords stopped working again, took out the pink paper again, out of his jacket pocket.</p><p>"Oooh! Thanks for your support! We will send you this week's edition in a couple of days." The man took the paper, examining it. "If you wish to participate in any chat, or conversation, you are welcome whenever you wish, Mr. Chandar."</p><p>Mark looked around and raised an eyebrow at the man. He forced a blink, and instantly regained composure.</p><p>"Don't worry about how lonely the place is today. Our members are hardworking people who come more often on weekends. But if you wish to support us even more, there's always the monetary way. However, it is not mandatory. Our duty is with our country itself."</p><p>Mark stared at him, and nodded slowly.</p><p>"I've got work to do. You're free to take a look around, but please don't go into the administration rooms. We reserve those for staff meetings. Once again, thank you for your support, and we hope to see you again."</p><p>The blond man walked down the hallway and entered the room to the right. Mark followed him out of curiosity, and found many computers, with a couple of people working on them.</p><p>It didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary, until he noticed that everything was on a rug, resembling the American flag. July 4th was still several months away, so he frowned his lips.</p><p>The blond man noticed and gave him the fake smile again, and turned on one of the computers, presumably to work himself.</p><p>When Mark entered the other room on the opposite side, he realized it also had the same rug. Many tables had the pink pamphlets on and opened, looking like a center of discussion, but empty.</p><p>Feeling uncomfortable for snooping around for no reason, he left the place.</p><p>The sky's blue tone was fading away. That was quite a view from any place in Miami, but not in downtown, where many buildings blocked the sight.</p><p>Perhaps it was time to go home.</p><p>Taking one last glance of the metal walls, Mark got into his car. He didn't know if he had done this to satisfy his desire to go against the Russians or out of social pressure, but it felt good. Despite the place and the man managed to poke his suspicion nerve, he chose to ignore it.</p><p>As he crossed the bridge to Miami Beach, he remembered the girl. Maybe he could find her there, and get to know her even more than her name.</p><p>The sun slowly hid in the horizon, with pink and purple taking their place beside the clouds.</p><p>"She's pretty, isn't she?" Mark asked himself, and pushed it, letting the fresh air in. His secondhand car didn't disappoint.</p><p>He got home and barely cared to take off his shoes, throwing himself onto his soft pillow.</p><p>Hopefully his exhaustion and lingering pain blocked any possible nightmare fabrication.</p><p>The tender night awaited, along with his pills lost inside the drawers of the closet.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>Voyager - Horizon</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Battle-scarred</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lunchtime at the diner. Mark curved a smile as he smelled the beef steak on his plate, grabbing the fork and knife.</p><p>Today was a special day. Jordan somehow convinced him for a hang out at night and promised for the tenth time he wasn't going to leave him. For a couple of hours at least.</p><p>A lie, easily detected, but he needed the distraction. His week had gone for stress more than fun itself at the job.</p><p>Since Tuesday, she hadn't returned for her caffeine daily dose. He grew tired of keeping his gaze on the door, expecting her to pass by.</p><p>His eyes only got disappointment.</p><p>The few blonde customers he had were Russians, whom he treated like everybody else, and even had to intervene when the usual pervert old man tried his luck. Luckily, this obese guy, insulting him as a traitor, couldn't endure a single punch, unlike... <em>others</em>. Bad Hawaii memories.</p><p>After a long time of routine, she broke it off. Why? Did he scare her? She didn't seem to be the fearful type, though. Or anything. Her expressionlessness covered her well.</p><p>A cold feeling lingered to Mark's heart. Jordan noticed that visiting the store, and told him what didn't want to hear, but needed anyway.</p><p>"<em>That's what you get for waiting too long, Marky.</em>"</p><p>He shrugged as answer. Missing her? For just four days? Of course not.</p><p>The ghost of her smile faded as he did his best to avoid the thought.</p><p>Suddenly, Mark tasted something sour in his mouth and gulped. Stupid memory paradox.</p><p>"<em>This is the weekend, OUR weekend in Nightride FM, where the real hits rule! It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in paradise on earth Miami! Nothing can go wrong with such gorgeous weather! I'm Rick, and in the next hour we'll be featuring the greatest hits of all time, with no commercials! Midnight Riders, Phil Collins, Love Fist, and more, with our newest revelation Perturbator! Less talk, more music! Rock on!</em> "</p><p>The diner didn't seem busy.</p><p>Two tables away, a couple had lunch chatting occasionally, and a young man with a goatee had a drink near the waitress at the bar, hitting on her. She politely had denied his advances, but kept her eyes on him, listening with a smirk on her face.</p><p>Pity or actual success, Mark drank a couple of sips of his lemonade.</p><p>He had the habit to observe, since his lonely lunches would be dull if he did otherwise. Jordan sometimes joined, when work didn't strictly need his assistance.</p><p>Even so, the detective rarely had canceled a planned lunch with such lame excuse.</p><p>"I've got work to do. See ya later."</p><p>So short and without complaints. Then he continued:</p><p>"Tonight, of course. A drink after this shitty shift wouldn't hurt."</p><p>"Fine." Mark answered and ended the call.</p><p>The events of the past days got the local police station upside down, so Jordan probably was busy up to the neck with paperwork.</p><p>Mark took another piece of steak to his mouth. At least now the taste matched its smell.</p><p>He had no plans for the afternoon, apart from continuing working with the circuits and cables of a wrecked TV.</p><p>His plans for the afternoon were none, apart from a damaged TV he had to fix. The other neighbor hadn't paid him for the NES yet, but she invited Mark a piece of birthday cake every once in a while, so he didn't mind, for now.</p><p>A bald man wearing an aquamarine shirt walked into the establishment, carrying his white dress jacket over his shoulder. Unlike the others dressed just like him, his skin was tanned, and his hairless face showed a quite normal expression, instead of the confident smug of a gang in their turf.</p><p>As soon as his presence got noticed, the atmosphere became heavier and more tense. Even the goatee guy at the bar interrupted his sweet talk and turned to the entrance.</p><p>The bald man barely paid any attention to the rude customers, and turned around to the entrance. A dark-haired woman, also tanned, entered and locked her arm into his.</p><p>Unlike him, she wore casual clothes. A pair of jeans, a colorful top, and a pair of heels, echoing on the floor with every step she took. When the others noticed her, the air began to flow again. The new couple passed by Mark, who glanced at them briefly, before returning to his food.</p><p>They looked like a newly made and cheerful couple, judging from her laughs and his shy smile.</p><p>The bar waitress reduced the volume of the radio, and one of her coworkers quickly went to attend the couple. Her voice trembled as she spoke, resembling a stammer.</p><p>Mark tasted another piece of steak. He wasn't fond of the rice beside, but he still needed the calories for the day. His espresso-based breakfast didn't say otherwise.</p><p>He didn't mind the situation. An innocent couple on date was nothing compared to armed mobsters coercing Mike's store for payment. Even if the bald wore the symbol of the Russian mafia on his suit.</p><p>Mark's mind started to fly again.</p><p>Perhaps it was time to use the old reliable, and go for a new jacket at Gash in the shopping mall. Tonight could be the night he met a girl as boring as him and finally feel the 'love connection' in silence.</p><p>Huh. Dreaming doesn't cost a thing.</p><p>A blonde entered the diner. Mark glanced at her, trying to get as much rice as possible on his fork. She was apparently talking to someone upon entering. A young man followed her. He was bald, too.</p><p>Mark snorted. He didn't know how that haircut became a trend at this time of the year.</p><p>The new bald guy had blond eyebrows. They moved along his eyes, as he inspected the place, but his companion quickly drew him to a nearby table.</p><p>"Another couple." Mark muttered, before getting the fork into his mouth.</p><p>However, he caught a glimpse of her face, interrupting his mumbling. It was <em>her. </em>His fork silently fell on top of the rice.</p><p>So all his hopes were on someone already taken?</p><p>"... Mark will be arriving from Savannah today too. God knows why he decided to come here, but it'll be a good excuse to get the gang together like old times."</p><p>"Mark? You mean the crazy fella who used akimbo guns?"</p><p>"Yeah, that one. I thought you liked him. I dunno anything about Tony and Corey yet, so I believe they'll still be in Atlanta. They don't answer any call, so..."</p><p>His face twitched at the mention of his name on her lips, but his gaze was fixed on his food, already getting cold. Of course it wasn't about him. His aim dropped to zero when he tried akimbo weapons, even with pistols.</p><p>The waitress, who had served the Russian and his girlfriend, went to serve them too. Although she was still nervous, she kept her composure while taking the order.</p><p>"And how have you been?"</p><p>"Eh, shitty enough. Finding a job over there was a complete nightmare, I just hope it's better here."</p><p>"You gave Beverly a good excuse, right?"</p><p>"You'll never call her 'mom' again, huh?"</p><p>"Yeah. As long as she doesn't come here we'll get along just fine."</p><p>"'<em>Mom'? What?</em>" Mark frowned a bit, and leaned forward, putting both elbows on his table.</p><p>"She misses you, Al. At least try answering the phone."</p><p>"Uh huh. What do you think we need for the little gather today? Besides deary Bonnie?"</p><p>So, 'Al' was her name. 'Al' what? Allison? Allie? Alexandra? Mark couldn't believe his goal was being completed without him moving a muscle.</p><p>Even so, his progress stood in a rounded zero, and didn't give signs of increasing, with him staring at the back of her messy ponytail.</p><p>Plus, who the hell was Bonnie?</p><p>"That thing's got a name now? Terrific." The bald snickered, shaking his head. "Hmmm, a tower of pizzas and a six pack of beers will do the trick. The big guy likes cheap stuff, unlike <em>others</em>."</p><p>"Huh. About that, get a job asap. You won't live off me this time, not in MY place."</p><p>"What? It's our house."</p><p>"Oh, yeah? I paid the fucking debt Dad left on it. So think twice what you do, unless you want me to kick your sorry ass out."</p><p>"Tch, as soon as I get a job we'll share expenses, 'kay?"</p><p>"You better. I don't need a useless parasite." Al raised her voice. "How's the order going? I'm hungry!"</p><p>"Uh, about lunch, do you mind...?"</p><p>"Broke already?" She sneered, making her brother frown his lips. "Fine, but don't get used to it."</p><p>Mark crushed a piece of steak with the fork, making its juice drip out to the plate. Was she smiling? Was she scolding? Was she showing any expression apart from her unnatural and never-ending sorrow?</p><p>He took the crushed and two more pieces inside his mouth, and chewed, slowly and focused.</p><p>They continued talking after the waitress brought their food, the service way slower than the tanned bald and his companion.</p><p>Mark didn't miss any detail. Their family, their 'outstanding and bitchy' mother, a passed away relative and the shitty technician job her brother had.</p><p>Every time the conversation reached any stuff related to her, she dodged the question, mentioning a certain Corey, or whatever else she could think of, like the news of the massacres. Her brother grinned at the topic, and started whispering and chuckling with her.</p><p>Mark couldn't catch more than loose words without looking suspicious, though he doubted anyone would notice if he changed places at his lonely table.</p><p>The idea got discarded quickly. Did he really need to know?</p><p>Instead, he took out a single bill from his wallet, put it below the empty vase of lemonade, and stood up.</p><p>On his walk to the exit, he subtly glanced at Al. She barely minded him, attentive to her brother. Her expression hadn't changed from the usual, but her cheeks had regained some color.</p><p>Mark turned forward and pushed the door. The sunrays fortunately hadn't turned his car into an oven. Before continuing with the day, he drove around South Beach. The sight of the young women, showing more skin as the temperature rose, was always welcome.</p><hr/><p>Gash's men section was deserted, on the second floor of the mall. Only the weird-postured cashier watched from afar, afraid of him being a robber or something like that.</p><p>Mark didn't blame him. For some people his scar made him look like a criminal rather than a veteran.</p><p>His search ended in a black leather jacket, draped over a mannequin. He didn't like the complete outfit at all, being biker style, and nothing would ever make him wear boots and a bandana, for fashion purposes only.</p><p>He hasn't ridden a motorcycle since his teen ages, but both jacket and gloves suited him well.</p><p>At least that's what the shop assistant said when she came up from the first floor. With Mark alone in there, he ended being the target of the girl's skills of verbal persuasion.</p><p>He listened, turning his view from the mirror to her, being one of the few moments that someone other than his mother or Jordan called him handsome.</p><p>To return the favor, he decided on buying both and put an end to her incessant words.</p><p>The man with glasses at the cash register kept looking at him as he approached. His pupils searched for a hidden gun that didn't exist.</p><p>Perhaps the mob had already paid a visit, so Mark assumed the man was already traumatized.</p><p>He paid avoiding the exchange of words, immediately putting the amount of money the price tag specified on the counter. The cashier didn't even have time to open his mouth, because as soon as he handed over the purchase, Mark turned and headed for the exit.</p><p>"Thanks for coming!" He heard the girl's voice. She was folding the pants and the bandana he refused to buy.</p><p>Mark felt warmth build up in his chest and go straight to his cheeks. He was about to give her a grateful gaze, and realized she possibly said that to all the potential buyers.</p><p>A gust of conditioned air blew his neck on the outside, as he went out, ignoring her.</p><p>He slowly ambled to the car, checking the fingerless gloves and putting them back inside the bag. If it happened like in the movies, women would come after him for having such a bad boy's look.</p><p>The only thing missing was the body spray from the huge billboards. If he used that, along the bad boy stuff, tonight could be a vivid wet dream, or his worst nightmare. It all depended on the perspective.</p><p>He passed beside the Miami Beach police station, where Jordan 'burned what little he had left of his youth'. Mark got there once, when he managed to knock out a daring youngster who tried to rob on his shift at the store armed with a penknife.</p><p>The officers had no idea on which side to get, because veterans had the repeating pattern of provoking fights in public places, especially with foreigners. If Mike didn't have prior friendship with Jordan, probably Mark would've ended up imprisoned for several nights.</p><p>Free from any charge, the least Mark could do as thanks was buying him a drink. Considering he spent barely any money on food, aside from rent and gasoline, it didn't hurt to have some extra expense. The absurd alcohol tolerance of the mad Texan caught him off guard.</p><p>Mark arrived home. The light-blue sky forecasted a clear night, unless the clouds suddenly betrayed the nice weather.</p><p>Climbing the last step of stairs to the second floor, he noticed a sealed cardboard box in front of his door. He sped up his pace to see what it was. Perhaps the mailman had the wrong address. Again.</p><p>A couple of packing tape strips sealed it, forming a cross. It had no remitter, neither letter, nothing on it.</p><p>Picking it up, he realized its lightness, and the two flat sounds it made when shaken, along with papers crumpling.</p><p>He was going to open it right there with his key, but his next-door neighbor came out just then.</p><p>"Hello Mark."</p><p>Alarmed, he looked at him with wide eyes. The man wore dark pants, but the same shirt color as the Russian mafia clothing.</p><p>"You okay? Seems I found you at a bad time."</p><p>He relaxed his shoulders a bit and blinked, then nodded.</p><p>"Oh. Um, this is the money I owed you, thanks."</p><p>He reached for the bill, though he had no idea how much the debt really was.</p><p>"See you around." The man jogged to the stairwell and disappeared from sight.</p><p>Inside his apartment, Mark carried the box to his work table. A disassembled TV and several components were on top, but he made space between them. Before he opened it, a flash of yellow light in the corner of his living room interrupted him.</p><p>A message on the answering machine. He wasn't expecting anyone to call him today, unless it was another advertisement, so he got ready to hang up if he heard any excited voice other than his mother's.</p><p>"You got <strong><em>ONE</em></strong> new message."</p><p>Instead, a male voice he didn't know spoke.</p><p>"Hey, mate! This is Paul. I found us a little job at East 7th Street. Come right away! The owners are paying extra if we finish painting before the night."</p><p>Mark frowned as he listened. His painting skills were far too low to be considered for a job he didn't apply to.</p><p>"Be sure to bring the tools I left for you. Remember, apartment 205. Catch you later!"</p><p>One click determined the end of the message. He hung up the phone, convinced that the caller got it wrong. However, being called 'mate' unsettled him a bit. Not many spoke like that in Miami.</p><p>If he remembered correctly, that address was near the slums of the city, where the eternal rivalry of foreign criminal gangs reigned. Did they have something to do with him? Why? Some slum lord in the need for a bodyguard?</p><p>With many questions on his mind, he went for the box.</p><p>Opening it entirely, he took out a raccoon mask, furry to the touch, and a can of red spray.</p><p>When he tried to examine them, he noticed three papers underneath. One had words written on it, other had a strange symbol drawn, and the remaining was blank.</p><p>Setting the way too early Halloween costume aside, Mark read the note.</p><p>"Tagging is your mission. Our symbol, your deliver. Discretion is of essence. Failure isn't an option. We'll be watching you. "</p><p>He heard the voice of his superior in Honolulu giving him another order. Even though he was back on the pills, he was once again convincing himself that they were doing absolutely nothing.</p><p>One circle and three lines across, all in red. It didn't seem complicated. But what did they really want? A paint job, and that's it?</p><p>He had the address. The place could be dangerous, but he could try. Tagging in a gang turf, entertainment assured, as long as the police and bullets didn't interfere.</p><p>Nothing compelled him, though. Were 'they' watching him? Who? Why? He had nothing to offer. His own life, perhaps. Nothing made it worth living anyway. Besides a vague thought about his job, something in particular.</p><p>"<em>You little…"</em></p><p>They could even send a threat to Mike, but Mark doubted they would do so, with the protection of the mob. Despite their shitty traits, those lowlifes protected their businesses.</p><p>He chose to shrug off. The mailman must have had the wrong address, and the caller the wrong phone number. So much coincidence in one day, but possible.</p><p>His shift was still a couple of hours away. Leaving his new jacket hanging in his closet, and the box on top of his discarded couch aside, he went back to work on the TV.</p><p>Nothing rushed him, so he turned on the radio and began to hum along with it.</p><hr/><p>The fan was vibrating slightly. Mark, ever silent, now checking the chassis voltages. Several circuits were messed up, hardly receiving any power and therefore not letting the TV turn on. Its replacements would be expensive, as the electronic sported a quite rare brand.</p><p>He decided to stop there and tell the owner he better buy a new one. Asian products were on the rise in electronic stores, and relatively cheap.</p><p>Mark pushed the chair backwards and stood up, and remembered its owner was the neighbor that just left.</p><p>Anyway, he got too lazy to put the TV back together, so he left its parts scattered across his table. Tomorrow he'd have the entire day to do it, even with the movie marathon he had planned.</p><p>A nap before going to Mike's could never go wrong. Tonight hopefully would be a long night, so he needed the energy. Setting an alarm just in case, he sank his face onto his pillow.</p><hr/><p>Mark opened his eyes. Dusk's weak lighting entered through the windows. Alarmed, right after putting on the nearest hoodie, he looked for his shoes in the dark, finding them within two steps, and stretched his left arm to turn on light.</p><p>His first time slacking off, and unwittingly.</p><p>After the bulb's last blink, he saw a trail of blood marks on the rug, ending in the closed bathroom. Many red stained clothes littered the space beside its door.</p><p>Another light blinked weakly, coming from the living room. Mark heard a subtle sigh, and tensed his fist. He rushed to his nightstand and put out his trusty combat knife. Using it was his last resort, but he hated robbers.</p><p>Breath now controlled, enough wariness to react upon a sudden movement and ready to throw his knife if he saw any type of firearm. Even if he was out of practice, a well-placed strike with its handle could knock anyone out.</p><p>The discarded couch was now in the middle of the living room. A man sat on top cross-legged, lounging with his arms stretched over its back. As Mark narrowed his eyes to see him clearly, the light above him became intermittent.</p><p>"Nice place you got here. It's been a while, isn't it?"</p><p>A shudder ran through his back, but Mark regained his grip instantly, agitating his head. He raised the knife up to his chin and scowled to the figure.</p><p>"You don't recognize me, huh? Allow me to refresh your mind." The man snapped his fingers, stopping the flicker of the light.</p><p>Mark saw himself, like a mirror image. His reflection wore his military clothing, stained by dirt and wounds, with a notable dark reddish spot on his vest.</p><p>His mildly bruised face sneered, letting fall a drip of blood from his cheek to his chin.</p><p>"Keeping on with the silence. I see you haven't changed."</p><p>"Why are you here?"</p><p>"The question is why are YOU here. Is this worth your life? Better yet, is this worth their lives?"</p><p>"..."</p><p>"Soon all will be different. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here. I want to see how this plays out."</p><p>"..."</p><p>"Perhaps you even do the right thing this time."</p><p>"Nhh..."</p><p>Mark's body began to feel heavy. The knife he was carrying fell from his hand.</p><p>He bent to pick it up, staggering in the process and falling to his knee, unable to stand up. Each of his scars began to ache, like fresh wounds.</p><p>"The armor you made. The façade you've worked on. It's pointless. You, heh, WE know what you really are."</p><p>His knife suddenly was soaked in blood, and his sleeves turned to a dark reddish color.</p><p>The pain increased, remarkably in his left arm, his main support from falling entirely. The weight of his body became unbearable.</p><p>"Wake up. Pain won't end until you do. See you around, Mute. "</p><p>His nerves stopped responding, and the biceps gave in, making Mark bite the dust.</p><p>The light started flickering again. Mark's reflection stared at him, as the latter rolled his face cheek down, returning the gaze with one eye.</p><p>It intertwined its hands, with each elbow on each thigh, appreciating his suffering. The smirk on its face had vanished.</p><p>Darkness swarmed the room, consuming every trace of light. Mark exchanged one last glance with his mirror image, until it lost form.</p><p>He forced a blink and awoke from his slumber, feeling his leg cramped and stinging.</p><p>Apparently it had been stretched out and suspended midair during his nap. Various parts of his body were still throbbing, especially the scarred ones. Without much hesitation, he grabbed the pills from his nightstand and swallowed a couple. The placebo effect worked at least.</p><p>He limped to the bathroom, and watched himself in the mirror. Sunrays still illuminated the room through the window, but chills trailed through his limbs, making him shiver.</p><p>His skin looked normal, and his scars too. He shook his head and entered the shower. Another nightmare wouldn't spoil the rest of his day.</p><p>He got changed into brand new clothes, even though those were reduced to the black jacket with the gloves, along his trusty pair of jeans and shoes.</p><p>Mark looked at the clock. Even if it wasn't a few minutes before half past four, he would have gone to the store. Here at his apartment, he sensed uneasiness in the air, and the image of his dream didn't leave his mind.</p><p>Locking his door on his way out, he saw a man dressed all in green in the corridor. He carried a mop and a bucket of water at his side.</p><p>Mark jerked his head back, incredulous. Finally, after so many years, the landlady thought of hiring someone to clean the place thoroughly. He greeted the worker with a slight nod as he walked past him.</p><p>The janitor wore an awkward grin. He didn't return the greeting, just stared at Mark.</p><p>The ex-soldier preferred to avoid eye contact and headed to his car as quickly as possible. He felt uncomfortable enough already.</p><hr/><p>Mark had just attended and helped a lady pushing her shopping cart with bags to her car. He mostly did it out of pity, seeing how two tiny demons destroyed the poor woman's youth.</p><p>His own mother came to memory, whom he had just called from the store's phone. The conversation didn't last long, he just wanted to know how she was doing, despite her automatically figuring something was wrong, and demanded an explanation.</p><p>He evaded the question, using work as an excuse. The chills made his determination falter.</p><p>Mike had also left without giving him a chance to talk.</p><p>Anyways, at least the store gave Mark some peace. His own apartment at this time was a strange land.</p><p>"If you stay quiet while mom does the shopping, she'll buy you chocolate!"</p><p>Mark smiled, turning the page of the comic he was reading. Old tactic, but effective.</p><p>Minutes later he would see them go, the two fighting over a single chocolate bar they didn't intend to share, but reluctantly had to. In any case, the woman had gotten the peace she needed to think.</p><p>Time crawled to a snail's pace. With the radio playing beside him, he noticed a five-minute long song somehow fitting in three minutes of real time. Maybe the clock was running out of batteries, or he got inside a time dilation sci-fi stuff.</p><p>Either way, he had bought several editions of his comic, so as long as he read them slowly, everything would be fine.</p><p>A fat man raging over a huge bag of chips' price, two girls with tiny tops and nicely-shown cleavages trying in vain to get discounts on alcohol, and the usual kid with a fake ID, whom Mark scared away by just taking off his jacket.</p><p>They were getting way dumber when making up names, or maybe he just didn't know many McLovins out there.</p><p>As soon as the obvious highschooler ran out of the store, he put on the jacket again, despite the heat of the environment.</p><p>The daylight outside turned more orange as the sun fell, but still far from the pink of dusk.</p><p>"<em>It's 5:47 pm on Nightride FM! Less talk, more music!</em>"</p><p>The little bell rang. Mark's eyes turned to the door and his heart skipped a beat.</p><p>Al, the blonde girl, walked into the store, with her bald brother beside. Unexpectedly, a burly man entered after them. He had long hair, with a grown beard and mustache. Pretty much like a fat lumberjack.</p><p>Unlike the other two, he didn't have a gloomy sadness on his face.</p><p>The two guys went straight to the alcohol area, leaving her alone in the candy area. She picked up lollipops, chocolates, cookies, gummy bears and almost every item, examined them, and left them in place.</p><p>Mark rested his cheek on his hand. Pretending to read wouldn't serve him much, but he had to try.</p><p>"Hey, Mark!" Her call out didn't go melodious in the least, making him startle.</p><p>His lost warmth returned instantly. He didn't know whether to answer, because she hadn't addressed anyone in particular. Her eyes still were on the candies.</p><p>"Yes?" The long-haired man replied. He carried a six pack of beer in each hand.</p><p>"You're going to buy us the pizzas, right?"</p><p>"If you buy the drinks."</p><p>"Aw, come on. You know the good stuff is on me."</p><p>"What do you mean…? Oh. Okay, I guess. But just this once."</p><p>The blonde girl took out a large chocolate bar, the most expensive in the store, and brought it to Mark, the one at the counter.</p><p>However, instead of starting another wordless ritual, she knocked him off with a single word.</p><p>"Hi."</p><p>He closed the comic with a low bang and straightened up. His fists clenched as they engaged eye contact. Her pale lips were now pinker, and its edges gave a tiny trace of going up.</p><p>"..."</p><p>Mark blinked a few times and the ghost of the little curve faded, as she pushed the bill in the counter towards him.</p><p>He knew he had to say something to her, but the words didn't come out. Her brother and his friend kept arguing over which brand of beer to get. Apparently the bearded one cared a lot about that petty detail.</p><p>If they managed to hear Mark's important question, perhaps the latter would end up in a terrible situation in which Al wouldn't ever return to the store and he would remain single for the rest of his dull life and die in his cold and damp apartment, probably overdosed.</p><p>"Uh…"</p><p>He looked up, after counting the three dimes in his hand. The moment was now.</p><p>"Ahem." Mark only gazed at her and nodded as thanks. Like to the rest of the customers.</p><p>She rolled her eyes. With the coins on her pocket, she walked to the other two, in the liquor area.</p><p>The ex-soldier sat down again, disheartened. Stupid syndrome, and stupid ephemeral placebo effect of the pills. He flipped through the comic book, his eyes lost as she grabbed a bite watching the other two arguing, enjoying the conflict.</p><p>In the end, the bearded one ended up winning.</p><p>"Screw this, I'll pay. Shut up, Ash."</p><p>"I'll take mine then."</p><p>"Are you really buying that trash?"</p><p>"You're missing the good things in life, fatman."</p><p>The bald man, who answered the name of Ash, took out his wallet, his smug expression fading as he inspected inside.</p><p>"Fortunately, you now have a bit common sense, nerdie." The bearded Mark taunted, seeing Ash return the six-pack back to its place.</p><p>"Tch, whatever."</p><p>The three returned to the counter, Al staying behind, nibbling her chocolate.</p><p>"Hey, man. We'll take this. " The bearded Mark placed the two six-packs in front of Mark.</p><p>"Fifteen."</p><p>"Fifteen what, punk? Don't you have some manners?" The burly Mark suddenly looked bigger and menacing.</p><p>The slim Mark narrowed his eyes to his namesake. Not the worst customer he has troubled with.</p><p>"Don't bother, Mark, he doesn't talk much."</p><p>The <em>two</em> Marks looked at Al. The unintended double Mark caught the three guys off guard, making their brains' gears rotate for a moment.</p><p>"Huh. I just noticed that you have the same name, haha."</p><p>Drat. Mark cursed the pin with his name, but considered many options. Maybe, and just maybe, she knew his name from a long time ago.</p><p>"Do you come here often, Alex? You seem to know him well."</p><p>"Yes, kind of. Are you going to pay or what?"</p><p>The bearded Mark left the exact sum on the counter and left through the door with Ash behind.</p><p>Alex was halfway through her chocolate. She snorted, glancing at slim Mark, and turned to go outside, taking another bite.</p><p>"Hi." Mark's voice came out like a whisper.</p><p>She stopped short, but after a second continued towards the door. Mark inhaled, briefly closing his eyes.</p><p>"Hi, Alex."</p><p>The bell rang and she regarded him. Her faint smile reappeared, curving enough to resemble a smirk.</p><p>Mark's heartbeat rose to a sweet tachycardia.</p><p>"See you around, Mark."</p><hr/><p>The radio tunes continued playing after a while. Mark tidied up the store, trying to spend some energies. Now done with the normal beverages, he opened the freezer, the vapor cooling down his cheeks and senses.</p><p>His joy didn't last, as the little bell rang again. Seeing the cash register unguarded, he quickly closed the freezer, and rushed back to his spot.</p><p>Much to his surprise, no one was there. Instead, he found a paper folded in half dropped on the floor. Mark, curious, picked it up and opened it.</p><p>A red circle drawn with three lines across. The ex-soldier looked around, through the tiny windows. He dashed out to the street, and got greeted by the usual pedestrians and Miami traffic.</p><p>Mike's store had been marked. The note from the box now seemed serious, and it had been a direct message to him. His scars began to ache again.</p><p>He had to listen to the phone call again, and do what it asked him to. He didn't want Mike to be hurt, or his only escape from disorder. His disorders.</p><p>Guilt filled his chest soon enough. He had to do it, before it was too late.</p><p>Mark tended another bald man, who walked in just before he decided to close the shop. His garish green jacket made him annoying to look at, but his soda purchase ended quickly.</p><p>Wasting no time, Mark closed the store, got in his car, and drove home. Having collected the mask, the spray can, and the phone call's address, he headed downtown.</p><hr/><p>The now purple sky looked over the city.</p><p>The unclear address got solved as soon as Mark arrived. A baseball park, an elementary school and many businesses covered the blocks of 7th Street, like a big complex of saunas or doughnut stores. These overshadowed the little houses they had beside.</p><p>About those, all of them had the same pattern. They had a single floor. Turning to the last block of 7th Street, Mark finally found two big buildings, one across the street from the other.</p><p>The left one had a hoodlum meeting on the entrance, judging from their smoking and loud laughs. A buff thug eyed his car as Mark drove by.</p><p>The right one had its lights on, but none were at the doorway.</p><p>Mark parked behind a black Fiat, outside the second building. His hands still on the handle, he softly dropped his head to the claxon, and took a deep breath.</p><p>"<em>Before the night</em>."</p><p>He looked at every direction with the mirrors, and found the precise moment to leave his car and run towards the lone wooden door. Mark pushed it. It didn't have any lock, so he stepped inside.</p><p>The mask on his pocket stood out. He grabbed it and put it on. Criminal or not, his face did its best in the shadows. In any case, he didn't expect the raccoon's eyeholes to go smoothly with his sight and his breathing.</p><p>"<em>Apartment 205.</em>"</p><p>One step at a time, the pressure of his grip on the spray can increased. The staircase was on the left, ending the corridor.</p><p>On the second floor, he only saw two rooms, one in front of the other.</p><p>Mark heard some voices on the left. Voices in Russian. Then he understood what he had come to do. Another mark, like the one the callers send to the store, but much bigger.</p><p>He unlocked the spray can and began tagging on the floor between the two doors, making the symbol he had already seen twice.</p><p>Hearing bumps from the room with the voices, Mark quickened his pace. This side of the city, with hoodlums on the street, and Russian language. Oh.</p><p>As soon as he finished the third line, he hurried to the exit.</p><p>He felt one trail of sweat going down his cheek, but on top of that, the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Before he could even enjoy the moment, he hopped into the car.</p><p>The hoodlums still were loudly conversing far away, not even showing signs of noticing the masked ex-soldier. The street seemed empty, too.</p><p>He took off his mask and put a hand on his racing heart. His fast-paced breathing matched it. A weak grin formed on his face. He had missed this. The adrenaline, the fear, the danger...</p><p>Only suicidal people would try to threaten the Russian mob, but he had complied with their task. Was he suicidal too? Mark started to laugh. His scars stung again, but he didn't give a damn.</p><p>He suddenly remembered his mother. His mind joined the pain, and stopped his grinning.</p><p>To drive it away, he tried shaking his head.</p><p>Instead of his mother, the image of Alex nibbling her chocolate waving her goodbye showed up.</p><p>"<em>Oh, bullshit</em>." Mark whispered, turning on the car.</p><p>Back to the bridge to Miami Beach, he sped up. The less time it took to re-open the store, the better. With some luck, Mike watched dusk with the calming waves of the sea and not from the counter of his store.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>house plants - We're Going Out Tonight Again</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. A jungle with coloured lights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"<strong>Let your imagination do the talking. Enjoy the service of our very best live contacts</strong>!"</p><p>Mark wondered how parents would explain such topic to their curious children. Well, the newspaper didn't show anything not family-friendly, so maybe they just didn't need to.</p><p>"<strong>Bi-female looking for a casual partner, clean, discreet and inexperienced.</strong>"</p><p>Still normal. Come now, Miami Dating Service… Hold up, a female looking for what?</p><p>"<strong>I like it all, but dominant women are especially welcome.</strong>"</p><p>Hardly a surprise. The notes looking for men were almost non-existent, unless it came from other men.</p><p>"<strong>Husband will watch, participate or leave us alone.</strong>"</p><p>"<strong>HOT!</strong>"</p><p>Spicy enough, Mark chose to turn the page.</p><p>After several hours of maximum attendance, usual on Saturdays at dusk, the public had decreased. The ex-soldier hid a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, just in case.</p><p>Jordan still didn't show any signs of life. He usually didn't take long, so Mark thought the police chief somehow had him chained up at the station. Understandable.</p><p>Whether he got here or not, Mark would visit a club. He needed a drink, and to try his luck in his new outfit, even if the odds were slim.</p><p>The bell rang again. With no talk, his attention turned to the door.</p><hr/><p>"<strong>Antonin Nolyshev, Male, 32 years old. Nationality: Russian. Immigrant for two years in the United States. Known occupation: None. </strong>"</p><p>Jordan snorted and reached for the bottle of water on his desk. Many hours of paperwork and casing files were driving him insane, and, to make it worse, on a sacred Saturday Night.</p><p>Chief Méndez had ordered the investigations to continue without rest, and Jordan drew the shorter stick. His colleagues, remorseless, left him on his own as soon as they could.</p><p>His relief should have arrived an hour ago. A yell right into his ear would probably speed up his pace, so Jordan dialed furiously, before getting the beeps of the busy line.</p><p>Not much progress had been made on the case. In a right state of mind, who wouldn't kill Russian mobsters? Any Miami citizen could be a potential suspect.</p><p>The fingerprint evaluation from the CSI was also fruitless. Dropped weapons didn't bear a single mark other than those of the victims themselves.</p><p>No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything. Jordan found it hard to believe, and so did Petrov, one of the mafia boss' lieutenants, whose impatience made the job even more complicated.</p><p>As he opened another criminal file, the office door opened.</p><p>"Hey! Working so hard so late, Trace?" The mocking tone annoyed his already troubled head.</p><p>Jordan raised his head, narrowed his eyes, and focused back on the file.</p><p>"Why are you here? Needed to see me before your wild solo session?"</p><p>"Wasn't it the way around? Huh, here it is." She walked to the desk and retrieved a black beanie, embroidered with a white Korean symbol.</p><p>"So, what's up with the fancy make-up? Finally grew tired of your lonely nights?" Jordan caught a glance of her lips glittering, which frowned at his words.</p><p>"And how you doing with your boyfriend? That veteran you always have lunch with."</p><p>"Pretty well, my dear. Though he might get a girlfriend today, hopefully."</p><p>"An open relationship, then? Hm, not impressed with your records."</p><p>"Yeah, yeah. Can we call this one off? I've got work."</p><p>"I heard there will be a little meeting between the Colombians and the Russians at one of the clubs in South Beach. Maybe there's some leads in there."</p><p>"No jokes on this, Grace, I warn you."</p><p>"I never joke about something capable of killing me, Jordy."</p><p>"Are you suggesting that the Colombians are the ones murdering the Russians?"</p><p>"A possibility of many. Like you said, there's no one here in Miami who would waste a chance to wipe them out, and they've got firepower."</p><p>"The Cartel can disappear with a single cough from Lebedev, I don't get you."</p><p>"Then why not apply guerrilla tactics against their business? Making them crumble bit by bit..."</p><p>Jordan flipped his eyes to the side and his right and left thumb rubbed his stubble. "I'd lie if I say I've never imagined this place like a warzone, though this..."</p><p>"Just follow me, yeah? I'll need cover if things get bad."</p><p>"Counting on me, sweets? Huh, miracles do exist." His smirk showed up again.</p><p>"You are my partner, right? You must be of some use."</p><p>"I'll be there. Just don't do anything stupid."</p><p>"The same for you. Bye."</p><p>The young Asian woman left the office. Jordan continued with the files, though he was sure he wouldn't get any worthy intel from them.</p><p>The Colombians were suspects now, because in the bar they found one among the victims, wielding a sword. An elite ninja team doing the dirty work? Perhaps.</p><p>There was nothing clear, apart from the chief's words to the press.</p><p>"<em>Gang war's casualties.</em>"</p><p>Another cold case? Of the many already in the archive? Amen.</p><hr/><p>The store phone rang. Mark, attending to a middle-aged woman carrying several pots of milk cream, glanced at it, and ended the exchange as quickly as he could.</p><p>"Oi, Mark! I'm leaving work. How about meeting up in Scorpia?"</p><p>"Never been there. How's the bar?"</p><p>"Decent, unless you're damn picky like the old man."</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>Mark hung up the phone. The proximity to midnight had him impatient, so he did his duties leaving a bee trail behind: Washing himself up, sweeping the floor, putting on his biker gloves, and closing the store.</p><p>He drove to South Beach, looking for the disco mentioned by Jordan. A single cocktail wouldn't waste him, as he searched for the likely victim for this night.</p><p>The mask and spray can were safely hidden under the back seat, with no better place until he got home.</p><p>Vapor mist combined with neon lights ruled over the long line of busy hotels and nightclubs. Mark parked across the street, near the palm trees beside the beach.</p><p>His BMW felt way out of place next to several luxury cars, along with the attractive women accompanying its owners. Lamborghini, Ferrari, Porsche, all in a row, with one of them standing out.</p><p>A black Pontiac Firebird, with golden trims and a pair of gold painted wings on the hood. Its beautiful design left Mark watching with slightly parted lips.</p><p>Two people came out of there. The first, from the driver's side, a muscular man in a white suit and aquamarine shirt. Unlike the rest of the Russians Mark had seen, this one's sleeves were rolled up, and wore a pair of red fingerless gloves.</p><p>He shook his long black hair tied in a low ponytail, advancing toward the door, where two tall, fat, dark-skinned guards in dark suits awaited.</p><p>Getting out of the passenger seat, a blonde woman stood up. She wore a pink fur cardigan, her blonde hair tied in a carefully done bun, with two hair sticks crossed through it. On her belt she carried a sheathed sword, holding it with her right hand.</p><p>She quickly positioned herself behind the long-haired Russian, just to his left. The guards stepped aside, letting them pass.</p><p>Four Russian mobsters appeared from the car behind the Pontiac, and entered as well, covering their weapons inside their white jackets. One of them, curiously, was the same one he had seen in the cafeteria this afternoon, highlighted by his tanned skin.</p><p>The rest of the people who were about to enter hesitated. Many backed up, deciding on the other clubs nearby, until a group of young women arrived with a limousine.</p><p>They all met the requirements of desire: short, tight dresses, voluptuous curves, and supermodel-worthy legs. Mark looked around for Hugh Hefner, just to check if he was this weekend's celebrity.</p><p>Like bees to a honey pot, the male audience came back in, and in no time, no one remembered the existence of the Russians in there.</p><p>Leaning on the hood of his BMW, Mark waited for Jordan to make his appearance, smoking the first cigarette of the night.</p><p>A young girl passed by him, nearly grazing his personal space. Her intoxicating perfume managed to pass through the smoke and reach his nose, causing a subtle choke from the combination. Mark watched her, as he cleared his throat hiding his cough.</p><p>In addition to her pair of swinging braids and her jacket, similar to the one he was wearing, she wore a short skirt and a pair of heeled boots. Stockings covered her toned thighs and legs, which earned many stares.</p><p>The girl crossed the street and disappeared at the entrance.</p><p>A sudden bright light atracted Mark's attention and made him squint, partially covering his face with his left hand. A dark sedan parked on the lot behind his. He straightened on his seat, finished his cigarette, and discarded on the sidewalk.</p><p>"You finally changed your high school kid style. Woohoo."</p><p>"Yes. Let's go."</p><p>"Oh, that was colder than expected. Did something happen?"</p><p>Mark shook his head. "You?"</p><p>"Neh, the usual." Jordan shrugged. "That reminds me..."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Let's talk it over a drink, shall we? I'm thirsty."</p><p>"Fine."</p><p>A bouncer frisked Mark, after letting Jordan pass without a hitch. Another nice bonus of his badge.</p><p>Lots of couples crowded the dance floor, all fired up with the music and the coloured lights on a night that was still young.</p><p>The tunes suddenly changed to a hit, making people even more excited, cheering at the disc jockey booth.</p><p>Mark, out of the corner of his eye, glanced at the VIP boxes, on the exclusive second floor.</p><p>The first had middle-aged executives getting drunk on expensive alcohol and women who obviously weren't their wives, a bachelor party was celebrated in another, and the four russian mobsters patrolled the last one, away from the rest.</p><p>Despite the imminent danger, Jordan casually sauntered to the long bar, and sat on one of the small stools to the left. Mark followed him, hoping he didn't snort on any evidence material before arriving.</p><p>Two young female baristas served there, with super-fitted low-cut dresses. Their breasts begged for freedom, but somehow the clothing managed to keep them inside.</p><p>"Hey, a large beer here."</p><p>"On the way, luv."</p><p>"I'll have the same."</p><p>The barista looked back, nodded with the robotic smile permeated on her face, and went on to the massive beer keg in the middle of the bar.</p><p>"Uh, am I missing something?"</p><p>"What do you mean?" Jordan mused.</p><p>"You don't drink beer. That's what I mean."</p><p>"Ah, it's just a change of air. Don't worry, I plan to finish those kegs if possible. So? What are you on about?"</p><p>Mark bit his tongue. The red tagging and mask thing didn't seem like such a good idea right now.</p><p>"Alex returned to the store."</p><p>"Alex ... Alex?... Alex who?"</p><p>"The blonde."</p><p>"The veteran? Do you finally know her name? At last! The first round is on me."</p><p>"Did you know she was a veteran? How?"</p><p>"You told me, remember. Have you invited her for a cup of coffee yet?"</p><p>"No. I didn't have a chance."</p><p>"Oh, of course you had. Don't wait too much again, eh? That girl is cute and military trained, whew, a perfect match."</p><p>"Didn't you like redheads?"</p><p>"You won't let that off so easily, will you?"</p><p>"How to forget? Did you see her again somewhere?"</p><p>"No, and she didn't 'reject' me, don't make me repeat myself."</p><p>"I was there. She brushed you off."</p><p>"Those tequila shots messed up your memories. Leave it that way."</p><p>"Eliza, Eliza... That name's tickling me for some reason."</p><p>"Hey, that's enough. How come an innocent liking can annoy you so much? I wouldn't bother telling you if I really found her attractive."</p><p>"Ha. Ha."</p><p>"And I'd never touch the only woman who makes my little friend's heart pound."</p><p>"If you say so…"</p><p>"Whatever, Mark."</p><p>"Sorry."</p><p>"Nah, it's okay. Sometimes I do forget your twisted sense of humor."</p><p>First round of beer. Mark and Jordan swigged half of the mug, quenching a nonexistent thirst. A couple of girls sat next to Jordan, but he didn't mind them.</p><p>Both were inside the common pretty standards, so Mark raised an eyebrow at Jordan, wiping the beer's foam with a napkin. The detective followed Mark's line of sight, trying to catch the gist. He smirked and shook his head in response. After a while, the two girls left.</p><p>"Are you sure you're okay?"</p><p>"I told you I am. I'm just not in the mood to listen to another hollow girl's self-esteem problems barrage. You didn't hear anything, did you?"</p><p>Mark had focused more on moving his neck along the music's rhythm, so the answer went straight out.</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Better." Jordan pointed to the second floor with his left thumb. "Look."</p><p>Mark turned slowly, carrying his mug of beer, keeping his presence blended into the atmosphere.</p><p>The Russian with the tied long hair he had seen at the entrance was leaning on the railing, watching the party. His face showed a scar even bigger than Mark's, over his left vivid green eye, ending on his jaw.</p><p>Sensing the sudden gleam of the gold earring on the mobster's left ear, the ex-soldier turned around and took another sip of beer.</p><p>"What did you want me to see? Besides the big shot I can't look in the eye."</p><p>"Oh, you knew about the son Lebedev?" Jordan whispered.</p><p>"The ones with power never go unnoticed, I guess."</p><p>"Psst, look again."</p><p>Mark stretched his arms up, looking from side to side, and finally glanced.</p><p>A meter away from the Russian was the blonde in the pink cardigan. She sported an impassive expression and the perfect poise, like a bodyguard.</p><p>Suddenly, a new woman showed up. She wore the short skirt, the stockings over her legs, eyed through the glass balcony, two braids and the softest Asian face Mark had ever appreciated. Effect of tons of makeup, perhaps?</p><p>She tried to get closer to the Son, but was met by the blunt part of the sword, blocking her path. After a brief exchange of words, the blonde sheathed her weapon. The Russian, with a vague smile, accepted the asian girl as a companion, later joining three more young women, before returning to his VIP box.</p><p>"Does Uncle Harry know about the new hotel guests?" Mark asked, shaking his beer mug.</p><p>"Yeh, he assigned a maid to tend specifically their rooms."</p><p>"I hope she does the cleaning thing well. Last time it ended up with a sink broken and lots of paper in the suggestion box."</p><p>"Don't worry. She's not new."</p><p>"Alright. Just saying, maids usually get highly strung with clients of this caliber."</p><p>"Uh huh." Jordan uttered, taking a sip of the beer, reluctantly.</p><p>Mark gulped. A sting operation? What for? And what was he doing here? All he wished was to be able to pick up a girl for a casual encounter, and now he was in the middle of a possible shootout. Not that he wasn't against the idea anyway.</p><p>He opened his mouth to ask one last question, but Jordan read his mind and pointed back at the second floor. Two men with tan skin and dark suits escorted a taller guy with a flowery salmon shirt, entering the same box as the Russian.</p><p>"How long do the vips are gonna stay around?"</p><p>"Eh, not for long. They said they came just for work, though something tells me they plan enjoying Miami, thoroughly."</p><p>"Sure you can't handle it on your own? I'm not feeling well to do overtiming, and you know that."</p><p>"Don't soften on me, man!" Jordan unbuttoned a single button of his jacket, showing two handguns holstered, one on his shirt, the other on his belt. "I'd do the hard work, I promise."</p><p>"Huh." Mark turned away, sighing. "I really should cash more."</p><p>The rhythmic songs continued as the night progressed. The ex-soldier and the detective lingered on the second round of beer, barely drinking at all.</p><p>Mark hadn't targeted any living creature since he left the military, settling only for inert targets at Ammu-Nation, the shooting range in Downtown.</p><p>Before the war, that store sold guns like hotcakes, under the line of "house protection". However, their sales got severely restricted with the arrival of the coalition to the US, nearly closing down the business if it weren't for the rising fame of paintball and airsoft.</p><p>To tell the truth, if something went wrong with the girl inside the VIP box with the Colombians and the Son, they couldn't do much. A former army engineer and a detective had narrow if not zero possibilities of taking out so many cartel members, with all the possible collateral deaths. Rather, they did better like depressed cheerleaders sipping liquor at the bar.</p><p>Mark uneasily moved his mouth from side to side. He had done more in less time, it was just a matter of...</p><hr/><p>A bright flash blinded Mark entirely, and heard three continued silenced pistol shots right beside him. Alcohol stench gradually filled his nose.</p><p>Two forced blinks got his eyes recovered. The scene almost panicked him.</p><p>The bottles shown on the wooden shelves were broken, with many bullet holes on the wall behind. All people on the dance floor had disappeared, but three with dark suits, whose shot down corpses lay below the coloured lights, on their own blood pools.</p><p>Jordan was nowhere to be seen, a lone beretta taking up his place. Mark didn't hesitate taking and racking the gun.</p><p>The DJ suddenly changed the song to a slow paced one, with an eerie bass. Mark looked to his booth, where the psychedelic glasses guy headbanged like nothing happened.</p><p>He slid his way behind the bar, finding the two baristas cowering on the floor. They looked unconscious, but he tapped one's back just in case.</p><p>The woman answered with a loud sob, startling Mark. He backed up instantly, stilling as he heard voices.</p><p>"Did you hear that?"</p><p>"Probably Gabriela and Denise. Get them out of here before this gets more fucked up."</p><p>The ex-soldier took a peek of the situation. A dark suited tan skinned man pushed the double glass doors and stepped towards the bar, wielding a silenced pistol.</p><p>"Girls? Get u..." His voice got dryly cut by a gunshot.</p><p>A huff escaped through Mark's lips. The cartel member dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, trying to cover his neck with a deep red hand, choking on his blood.</p><p>The lights around flashed in purple, before going on with its never ending loop.</p><p>Mark raised on his feet and got out of the bar. Pistol muzzle forward, frosty at any step and ready.</p><p>As soon as he saw a shining black shoe on the opposite side of the dance floor, he hopped to the low wall, between the bar and the illuminated tiles. The first body was in plain sight, so he prepared to fire back.</p><p>"It's only one mere cop! Imma kill Torres for having such petty security in this club, man."</p><p>"Yeah. Wait, what? Isn't that...? Hey!"</p><p>He heard many steps hurrying through the dance floor to his location.</p><p>"<em>Center... of mass. Don't fuck up!</em>"</p><p>Mark leaned to his left and pulled the trigger twice. The first launched the first mobster backwards, dropping a penknife in the process, his shirt acquiring the red tinge. The second reached the other mobster's abdomen, but that didn't stop him.</p><p>Remembering instantly how to handle fat enemies in Honolulu, he backed up as the thug tried to lunge him. The adrenaline didn't let Mark aim, firing eight bullets right on the chest, deepening and deepening the wound. The thug, having endured that much punishment, clenched his teeth before collapsing on his back.</p><p>Judging from the beretta's weight, three or four bullets were left in the chamber. Mark sensed more cartel members patrolling nearby, and they eventually would notice their missing people, now drown in blood pools.</p><p>He dropped his current weapon and retrieved the silenced one beside his first victim, and dashed back to cover by a potted plant, beside the glass doors.</p><p>The entrance's group of mobsters were still oblivious of his presence, though he didn't understand why. His gunshots weren't that subtle, even if the music had gotten even louder now.</p><p>Taking a peek through the blur of the double doors, three mobsters guarded the area, a thug between them. Before Mark could even breathe to give himself courage, footsteps approached.</p><p>"Where's Paulo? Shame of a first day he's having."</p><p>"Leave him be. Maybe he's consoling the ladies."</p><p>"Very funny, man."</p><p>Their voices got louder and weaker as they spoke. Mark stood still for half a minute, noticing they patrolled in circles, with the remaining one talking on the phone, with no signs of end.</p><p>The ex-soldier pushed the closest glass door, as he heard the voices a bit afar. The first shot easily scored the head, the second and third the heart and lung, and the fourth and the fifth didn't hit anything.</p><p>The one at the phone, as soon he noticed the bullet going straight for his neck, ducked along with the sword on his belt. The dodging posture, the technique... It was Hawaii all over again.</p><p>"<em>Keep your knives at hand, ladies! They are not for just opening MREs!</em>"</p><p>That one mobster approached dodging every following shot, barely flinching when doing it, like he could predict its travel direction. He didn't run though, maintaining his right hand on the sword's grip, ready for the swing.</p><p>Mark strafed backwards again, searching for the penknife on the dance floor. Tightly grasping the little sharp weapon, he rushed toward the swordsman, and won the speed contest.</p><p>The evasive mobster fell to the ground, his neck holed up, bleeding over the collar of his purple shirt. Mark pounced over him and slit the wound open, snuffing his life out.</p><p>He looked at his gloved hand, snickering over it. Much blood from... Who were they? People serving the reds, nothing more. They needed to be dead.</p><p>The rest of the first floor got cleared with the useful Uzi found between the bodies of the entrance.</p><p>His recoil control wasn't the best at the time, but a single bullet piercing the skin did the job. Even when reaching a thigh or an arm, its victim couldn't move again, rendering the skull vulnerable for a double tap, or a neck snap when the chamber ran dry.</p><p>Grabbing a curious submachine gun he had never seen before, Mark climbed upstairs, searching for the cop mentioned many times by the cartel, probably being Jordan. Right after the last step, a white suited mobster rushed towards him with a large baseball bat in his hands.</p><p>The ex-soldier barely pressed the trigger and a barrage of shots filled the Russian's upper body. Pink pitch took over the bright lights.</p><p>Two mobsters patrolled inside every VIP box, which had a brass pole and platform in the middle. Maybe the escorts weren't just escorts.</p><p>The smg ammo didn't last, as much as he tried going for a slow rate of fire. He ended up throwing it to a shotgun mobster, before punching another right on the nose.</p><p>Mark focused on not firing that specific weapon and comitting auditive suicide in such closed space, so he just bashed their necks with the gun's butt.</p><p>One box remaining.</p><p>The ex-soldier stationed himself outside, unable to hear anything from inside. Pushing the door slightly, he tried peeking inside. A carefully pink nailed hand grabbed him from the collar and dragged him to the box, with such strength he tripped in the middle and dropped his weapon retrieved from the last mobster. A black heeled boot kicked it away, before stepping on his right wrist, as he turned his face up on the ground.</p><p>The room had pretty dim lights, allowing him to barely see through.</p><p>Two women showed themselves to his eyes. The first was the Russian bodyguard, now with a visible blue sports bra inside her pink cardigan. She acquired a battle stance like the swordsman on the previous floor, though she awaited for an order, intently breathing but not moving.</p><p>The second one, on his right, was the girl with the braids. Instead of the black beanie, she donned a white animal mask with long downed ears, like a weird bunny with canines instead of incisives.</p><p>She got on one knee, putting all her weight on her left foot and stepped on his right wrist, causing Mark to let out a painful grunt. He tried defending himself with his free arm, but the sight of the blonde had it immobilized. She wouldn't mind cutting off both's heads.</p><p>As he tried biting his lip to overcome fear, like he did way before in the jungle, his left wrist got stepped on this time, but way lighter than the other. A man with a dark suit and blue shirt was on one knee, causing pain as well, but less than the braided girl.</p><p>The mysterious man dressed like Jordan looked at him, using goggles and his face covered up to his nose with bandages, similar to ones he had over his hands.</p><p>"Shouldn't you be away from here? This isn't a dream of yours." A male's distorted voice spoke.</p><p>The man on the left didn't move his face bandages, so Mark glanced at the bodyguard. She nodded to an order from the darkness, stepping aside and keeping the posture.</p><p>"Or is it?" The white suited boss appeared in front. His black hair was now short, and his scar came across the right cheek, instead of the left.</p><p>Suddenly the two restraining him let go and turned around, the man with goggles drawing a pistol from his belt, and the masked girl a knife up a sleeve. Both instantly received a headshot and a plain cut over the chest, respectively, getting launched backwards.</p><p>"Russian motherf..." The masked girl got interrupted by a bullet, right into the middle of her mask's eyeholes.</p><p>The version of himself wearing the Russian mafia attire started bleeding from his cheek, as it aimed a revolver at the real one's face.</p><p>"Glad to see myself again." It muttered with a sad smile, before firing, getting Mark flashed again.</p><hr/><p>"Having a good time, guys?" A barista suddenly approached, seeing they were both quiet, staring at nothing.</p><p>"Much better now, honey. How you doin'?"</p><p>"Fine, you know, working my ass off. How about getting you something stronger? It's on the house."</p><p>"Oh, okay. Do you want something?" Jordan looked at Mark, who just shook his head.</p><p>"Then it'd be just for me."</p><p>"Anything specific?"</p><p>"Are you available?"</p><p>"Maybe. The bar has everything sir could wish for."</p><p>"It's Jordan. I'd like a vodka. "</p><p>"Coming right up."</p><p>Mark hid a slight burp. He thought they were controlling the booze with simple beers.</p><p>"I spot Angel Dust and coke from miles away, chill." The detective let out a low chuckle, as the barista walked away.</p><p>Was their cover blown? How? Mark looked around. Only a single cartel guard looked at him, briefly raising his chin.</p><p>"I don't have time to cover your shift, man." The ex-soldier barely eyed his companion.</p><p>"Come on! For good ol' times!" Jordan suddenly pushed himself closer to Mark's ear. "Sheesh, I almost forgot, I set up a girl for you tonight. That'd sweeten the deal."</p><p>"You mean the maid?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>The texan just dismissed the danger from the operation. Mark finished what was left of the beer and ordered the third, with a shot of Jäger.</p><hr/><p>More movement began to flow on the second floor, in addition to the women passing by.</p><p>The furthest VIP box's door opened and the four Russian mobsters on duty approached their boss, who marked distance with the furious expression on his face.</p><p>He was yelling to the phone in his ear. Strangely, the blonde woman with the cardigan suddenly covered his shoulder with her hand, breaking her distant appearance. Her shades didn't let a feeling free past her eyes, but her little moisten of lips showed more than enough. Unless worried and downed mouths were the result of thirsty bodyguards.</p><p>The music dropped subtly in volume, as if the disc jockey had noticed the situation.</p><p>The Son hung up, and the six formed a compact square and went downstairs. Despite the DJ queuing another hit and turning up the volume, the group grabbed the customers' attention, like they did on the entrance.</p><p>Mark got caught in the middle of his trip to the bathroom, which happened to be next to the stairs. For a few seconds, he stared at the Son's face, examining his scar.</p><p>"Out of my way." His left eye didn't finish the blink, only his lower eyelid moving.</p><p>His green eyes sparkled in fury, even with the blonde trying to appease him. Perhaps Mark was exaggerating, he didn't know bodyguard procedures.</p><p>After a few seconds, one of the mobsters in front advanced towards the ex-soldier, cracking his knuckles. As an immediate reflex, the latter stepped aside, colliding with an empty table.</p><p>The group of mobsters in white suits, back to the square again, marched to the exit, disappearing from sight. Mark sprinted to the bathroom, barely making it in time.</p><p>While he washed his face, his sight got blurry and forced a blink. The darkness flashed in purple and pink, ignoring the bright lights over his head.</p><p>Could he have taken out the six by himself? The woman seemed to be the most dangerous, until he exchanged glances with the Son.</p><p>He opened his eyes, and refreshed himself again.</p><p>Since when his life had so little value? Bare-handed, he couldn't have done more than steal oxygen from the boss, before a single sword swing chopped his head off.</p><p>Mark left the sink and headed to the same stool next to Jordan, noticing from afar it was now occupied by the Asian girl with braids.</p><p>When the ex-soldier reached the other free seat nearby, the barista appeared with a large glass of cuba libre, the lemon wedge and the straw, and placed it in front of the girl.</p><p>"Thanks." She took a few sips of the cocktail, then turned to Jordan.</p><p>Before she could even open her mouth, the detective raised a hand, straightening up in his seat.</p><p>"Mark, this is Grace Nam, the maid I talked to you about. Grace, this is War Vet Mark Chandar." He pointed to each other, using the space he had just cleared.</p><p>Grace greeted him with a smirk. Mark raised his neck briefly along with his eyebrows. If she was tonight's chosen girl, at least her first impression hadn't been the bad side of his face.</p><p>"Any prob with the vips today?" Jordan leaned his elbows back on the bar, his eyes fixed on the intact glass of vodka.</p><p>"Nope. An impeccable luggage, and excellent treatment."</p><p>"The tips went well, I reckon."</p><p>"A couple of twenties from the nicer one. The other one surely forgot, because he left without warning. From what I heard, one of their eight burger shops got a rat infestation or something."</p><p>"What? Isn't that seven-end-up?"</p><p>"Yup, ending up with seven. Nice maths, partner." Grace contrasted Jordan's reaction, taking more sips of the dark liquid.</p><p>"Fuck." the detective stated simply.</p><p>Mark scratched his chin. Following the dialogue in code was difficult if he wasn't the one addressed.</p><p>Jordan's phone rang, its sound barely noticeable against the loud beats, but enough for the ex-soldier to hear.</p><p>"Trace speaking."</p><p>Jordan looked down, darkening his expression.</p><p>"Where?"</p><p>His index and middle fingers tapped on the bar, relentlessly.</p><p>"10-4." He closed the large phone and put it in his pocket.</p><p>Grace and Mark watched him closely.</p><p>"Are you coming with me or you going by yourself?" Jordan suddenly drank the shot of vodka, and searched for his wallet.</p><p>"Say what? I'm not the one being called, partner."</p><p>"Suit yourself. Think for a good excuse for Méndez, can you?" The detective left a twenty bill next to his glass, and stood up, adjusting his suit.</p><p>Grace shrugged and returned her attention to the straw, waving her hand.</p><p>"See you around, Mark. Duty calls."</p><p>"All good?" the ex-soldier followed Jordan's path with his eyes.</p><p>"All good. You know how it is. Uh, get along, you know, don't be too harsh, Grace."</p><p>"I already said goodbye, Jordy."</p><p>Jordan frowned and walked away, careful not to collide with other customers passing by.</p><hr/><p>Despite they both exchanged glances repeatedly, neither made the move for quite a while, until a random guy sat in the middle and started talking to the Asian girl.</p><p>Mark smiled. It was always the same. On the bright side, at least it didn't happen with Alex, Ash just being her brother.</p><p>The cuba libre glass now in front of him was half full.</p><p>Her silhouette invaded his mind, again. With this one it would be six today, not counting the diner, and after his first crime.</p><p>"Sorry, officer."</p><p>"Get lost, creep."</p><p>The random between Grace and him stood up and took another seat, away from her. Taking advantage of the situation, she pushed her glass to the right and jumped on the unoccupied stool.</p><p>"You don't talk much, do you?"</p><p>Mark shook his head, before taking another sip of his drink.</p><p>"But I've seen you so chatty with Jordan, are you afraid of women or what?"</p><p>"Only of the pretty ones." The ex-soldier curled the corner of his mouth.</p><p>"Curious way of telling me I'm not."</p><p>"Bad habit. Um, How long have you been working with Trace?"</p><p>"About five months. I'm surprised you haven't seen me yet."</p><p>"Perhaps I did, but I only remember your voice. I mean, you look different from how you normally do."</p><p>"Oh? You mean these? " From the pocket of her black jacket she retrieved a pair of round glasses.</p><p>"Yes." Monosyllables killed any conversation, and Mark knew it well, but couldn't think of saying more.</p><p>Grace put the glasses on and pushed it up her nose with her middle finger. Raising her eyes from his chest, until they connected with his pupils, as she approached, very smoothly.</p><p>The ex-soldier instinctively backed away, with a sad smile. His flirty first girlfriend popped up on his memory.</p><p>"You look better like this." Mark put his hand on his chin, tilting his head to the side.</p><p>"Heh. If you're trying to hit on me, I'm afraid you're going for a bad end."</p><p>"No way."</p><p>"If so, then I can tell you look rather manly tonight. Good shot on changing those baggy clothes you always wear."</p><p>"Have you been spying on me?"</p><p>"No! I just... figured out. The times I've seen you at Mike's you always look the same."</p><p>"Whoa, a stalker. Help, officer." Even when trying to be funny, Mark's voice came out nearly toneless. Yet, it was still better than nothing.</p><p>"Haha, don't get cocky. I was looking forward to meet Jordan's handsome boyfriend, and got to know you instead."</p><p>"Oh, really?" Mark snorted.</p><p>"Yep." She took a large sip of her drink, and her small eyes widened as she returned her attention to him. " Gosh! I love your gloves! Where did you get them?"</p><p>"Gash. Though I'm not a biker myself, surely you can teach me sometime." Mark replied, with a tiny smile.</p><p>"Ho? You knew I had a bike? Superb! But are you confident enough? Many gave up on my riding way before they learned something..." She smirked at him, whom glazed eyes conflicted with his seductive upped eyebrows.</p><p>"I'll take the challenge." Mark broke eye contact and concentrated on his drink. Grace too, her glass already running dry.</p><p>The ex-soldier blew some cold air over his face, his cheeks feeling an unusual burning blush. Craving to know Alex's name for such big long ass time, and now he felt flat into another girl's sugary inuendo. Great.</p><p>"You are pretty normal for a veteran. It's just... weird. No offense." The asian woman stared at the ice cubes of her vase.</p><p>"I've been told that before. None taken." Mark pushed his glass to both sides, hoping she didn't go from talking in a sexy way to about his memories in the war. Muteness walked by the hand with that.</p><p>"I also wanted to be a soldier when I was little. Mom didn't let me."</p><p>"Such a loss. You're a pretty good maid, doing your part for this decaying country."</p><p>"... It's not so easy with the vips in between."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"Do you?"</p><p>"Yes. Keep it up. No one I know could do what you did."</p><p>"You don't know many people, do you?"</p><p>"That matters?"</p><p>"No." Grace looked at him, forming a coy smile. "Heh, you are flattering me, and here I thought it was one-sided."</p><p>"Cheers."</p><p>Mark examined again his glass, just in case, and no, nothing was dissolving in it. His PTSD absent, and a flirty and extremely attractive woman beside.</p><p>"<em>Hooray for the coincidences</em>?"</p><p>His cocktail straw bubbled. Even drinking so fast, its effect was still minimal.</p><p>"Hey, Grace."</p><p>"Hm?"</p><p>"Wanna go and dance?"</p><p>"You know how to hit the floor?"</p><p>She toyed with her glass, attentive to Mark's response. However, the ring of a mobile phone interrupted her.</p><p>"Nam here. I'm busy." Her eyes narrowed even more from the boredom of the call.</p><p>Mark returned to his starting position. He supposed it was Jordan, calling her out.</p><p>"Trace, if Pardo is there, you'll have to put up with him. I'm not…"Grace squeezed the phone and bit her lip. "Chief Méndez."</p><p>"..."</p><p>"On my way."</p><p>The Asian girl pulled a purple wallet out of her jacket, and mimicked her partner's escape.</p><p>"Did something happen?" Mark spoke, watching her quicken her pace.</p><p>"Multiple 1-8-7s. See you another day."</p><p>"Bye." He waved a hand, answering her goodbye.</p><p>Mark finally linked up with the hamburger shop sentence.</p><p>
  <em>"Wait, what? Isn't 1-8-7 homicide? Multiple? Where?"</em>
</p><hr/><p>Mark arrived home, with loneliness as his loyal companion. He spent the last hour appreciating the waves on the beach though, so the night didn't go to waste.</p><p>Leaving his car, he remembered the mask and the spray can, so he retrieved them and quickly hid them inside his jacket, which had at least attracted one female in the club.</p><p>At that time, he could only find himself wandering the halls for a night walk. The rest of his neighbors made the most of their resting hours, even oversleeping when not on holidays.</p><p>A package waited for him at his door. It was a hot pink booklet with contrasting bold lettering and a clipping on top, all wrapped in a transparent bag.</p><p>"<strong>Thank you for subscribing to our newsletter. We appreciate your interest in our cause. America is a tune. It must be sung together. -50 Blessings."</strong></p><p>About time. He hadn't heard from them since his visit to its HQs on Tuesday.</p><p>Mark walked into his apartment. It didn't look as gloomy as it did hours ago, or maybe because he didn't have anywhere else to go.</p><p>He got changed at his own pace, leaving his black jacket carefully hanging in the closet. Wearing it everyday wasn't much of a nuisance, as he wanted Alex to see it.</p><p>The raccoon mask and spray bottle were left in the box they came in. The ones sending them had bothered too much for a simple job, whoever they were.</p><p>With one last yawn, he flopped into the bed, with the thought of sleeping in as much as Sunday let him. Unless a wild nightmare intruded.</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>*East 7th Street*</strong>
</p><p>"Six victims, detective, white suits. Has the drunken bum said something relevant?"</p><p>"If you consider repeating the face of a chicken full of blood over and over again, I guess so. Hm, a clean cut to the neck. Another execution?"</p><p>The victim's white suit collar, next to CSI member Nate, had already taken on a certain unnatural red color. Both hands trying to cover a wound that condemned him to death.</p><p>"Looks like one, sir. Your partner? Chief Méndez ordered us to not move anything until you arrived."</p><p>"She'll get here. Where is the rest?"</p><p>"Two in the door on the left, and three down that hall." He pointed to the door past the apartment's small kitchen.</p><p>Jordan walked through the door on the left, following two trails of dried blood drips.</p><p>Where the one on the right ended, he found another CSI member was taking notes, near a body leaning on a sofa, with minimal blood splatters.</p><p>"Hm... that's the killer's weapon, issn't it?"</p><p>"A penknife, sir, but how is this possible? They knew what was coming, and couldn't even react."</p><p>"Drugs help any madman. And this here? " the detective pointed to a pistol lying on the ground, surrounded by white chalk.</p><p>"Loaded, but not fired. I didn't find any trace of gunpowder here."</p><p>Jordan leaned down to get a better view of the body. A perfect throw to the forehead. Apparently the victim had slipped to where he was now.</p><p>"Ring me if you find something else, yeah?"</p><p>"Understood."</p><p>"By the way, where's Pardo?"</p><p>"With Johnson, next to the shot down victim."</p><p>"Good, thanks."</p><p>The third body was found with the skull done shreds. The bed covers around were stained in deep red, and the blood pool formed had spread out under them. From here started the other trail of blood, leading to the kitchen, where the first body was.</p><p>The fourth body was in the middle of the corridor, its neck broken, in the same way as the Brickell Station attack. A double-barreled shotgun lied near the end of the hall, with the corresponding white chalk.</p><p>"Whoever fired that shotgun must be nuts, sir. The noise caused would destroy anyone's eardrums."</p><p>"Who knows. I'll go help with the interrogation. The neighbors must know something else."</p><p>Jordan and Pardo crossed each other at the door to the last room. The first paused to let the other pass, earning a cold look as the latter left.</p><p>The fifth body was face down, with a head wound, notable for being the only hairless mobster on site. A brick lay nearby, one side redder than the rest.</p><p>"A brick right to the neck, sir."</p><p>"A pitcher killer,eh?"</p><p>"I don't know, detective. Nice thought, I suppose."</p><p>"You don't have sense of humor, do you Johnson?"</p><p>"Not in this situation, no."</p><p>"Ah, never mind."</p><p>A shotgun shell casing was beside the door, surrounded by white chalk. From this point of view diagonal to the wall across, there were two bullet holes, where the last victim was located.</p><p>The body had no left arm, and the face displayed no other expression than pain.</p><p>"Something does not fit. Brickell and this one's share too many signs, even there's the red circle out there."</p><p>"The bar doesn't. Does it mean more than one group is hunting them Russians?"</p><p>"Could be. But this... we are in the middle of everywhere, and the killers knew this hideout. This must be an inside job."</p><p>"The bratva getting betrayed? No, that's too far-fetched, Trace."</p><p>"Yeah, I know, only thinking out loud. Hm, this last shot seems kinda unnecessary, like a call out for the rest of the building."</p><p>"So they wanted us here?"</p><p>"Probably wanted <em>THEM</em> to know, partner."</p><p>"Ah, murdering psycho thoughts always give me the creeps."</p><p>"The rookie wonders is on her way with more, don't worry."</p><p>"Wonderful." Johnson answered, clenching his teeth.</p><p>Jordan's cell phone rang.</p><p>"Trace here... Ah, on my way." The Texan frowned, then shook his head.</p><p>"The Mob?"</p><p>"Sadly. Petrov arrived faster than I expected. "</p><p>"Uh..."</p><p>"Not for you, relax. I doubt they even know you exist... Ah, crap, we have nothing but a hobo's word about a wicked chicken man."</p><p>"Maybe it's for real. I mean, he's the only witness in three different hits. "</p><p>"You said it, '<em>maybe'</em>. As always, give me a call if you find something. "</p><p>"Roger. Good luck, detective."</p><p>Jordan went down to the first floor, where Chief Méndez was waiting, talking face to face with the bald-headed Petrov, having two other Russian mobsters behind him.</p><p>He had no doubt they all had a tarnished criminal record and could somehow be arrested, but the judges all over Miami were bought off, or dead, so it would be useless, and moreover, counterproductive.</p><p>With a deep breath, he prepared to give the most ridiculous speech he could come up with, involving a killer in a chicken mask, and hopefully, this time, find an answer.</p><p>Too much hope.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>White Bat Audio - Grave Encounters / Shadow Voices - SelloRekt / LA Dreams</em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>First attempt at action. Thanks for reading, if you did.</p>
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